


Bond

by 88dragons



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Fluff, Graphic Violence, Hopefully not too OC, Lycans, M/M, Sex, Smut, Supernatural Creatures, Violence, an actual plot, sorta - Freeform, strigoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:16:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 39,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/88dragons/pseuds/88dragons
Summary: Mr. Quinlan and a Lycan.  Yep.  I know.  Cliche'.  Let me know if I should keep posting or delete it and pretend I never posted it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this because I feared I might make some people not like me for writing it and not keeping it to myself. . I have this habit, if you will, of taking a character that I love and writing them gay. I don't know why I do this, but I do. But let's face it: with vamps and elves, it isn't much of a stretch. So, if you don't like it, please don't read, and please don't cuss me out for it.
> 
> I am taking a lot of liberties here. I have never read the books or graphic novels. Also, the whole Lycan/werewolf myth, I'm messing with that big time to suit my needs, so if you see something that isn't typical, then it's just me screwing around with stuff.
> 
> More characters will be added later. I'm in a rush and my brain is giving me the silent treatment today.

Smoke rising from various areas across the city tells me much. The smell of death tells me even more. Much more.  
The quiet, amazingly, tells me still even more. The humans who had inhabited this place are either dead and lying rotting or were dead and crawling through the bowels of this city, feeding on the ones who had managed to survive the onslaught of the Master.  
He should have been put down centuries ago. Millennia even. Not only had the Ancients dropped the ball, letting their ‘brother’ have his way with the world, but so had others and now it was costing dearly.  
These modern cities, they mock the great and proud cities that have stood for much longer. Those cities I have traversed time and time again, always finding something new. Even before this country, this America, was more than an ideal, I enjoyed the streets of Rome, Cairo, Vienna, and Barcelona. Oh how I miss those days. No sounds of cars and their horns, cell phones and their rings. Just people bustling at markets or off to a play or any of the other old entertainments. Now it is fast food restaurants, moving picture cinemas, and concerts of shifting and confusing genre.  
I sniff the air. Human smells – sweat, blood, and tears – petrol, smoke, smog, the dead, and fish ferment the air, burning my nostrils more than the damned cold. But all is not lost, or putrid to my senses. There is the scent of another in this city. One older than I. Battle worn. A hunter like I and I know that if I can sense him, then he can surely sense me. Predators know when another is about and he and I are on the top of the food chain. His is a scent I am familiar with though we have never met. In proximity, yes, barely missing one another along this long road we traverse, but familiar all the same.  
It seems we might actually get to greet one another, if only in passing.  
I stand; check the street ten stories below me to make sure no one is walking by. I rely on my other senses as well, and I am all alone on this street. I jump, the air billowing my shirt and coat out and above me, my hair getting in my eyes, and I land on both feet as silent and steady as if I had just taken a step off a single stair onto the concrete.  
And they say cats are graceful and always land on their feet. Well, so does my kind, and trust me, we do it much better.  
My plan was to just roam the streets, get a feel of them so-to-speak, but things rarely go as planned and a sense a large grouping of strigoi, maybe twenty or so, not far from me, off to my left and down. Even down there, in the deep darkness of the under city, they have no advantages over me. Not by ability or sheer number. Twenty. A hundred. It doesn’t matter. I will put them down, whether by bullet, fang, or claw it doesn’t matter.  
The fangs are mine, if I have need of them, and like the claws come out when I so desire, though the entire process is painful, extremely so, and thus most of my kind avoids it unless it is necessity. The guns are mine. Custom. By me. I worked a forge four hundred years ago. I can still work one today – if one can be found, that is.  
The bullets are any that you would find anywhere. There is nothing special about them. No secret recipe. No alchemy enhancements. Though all paths to such things are open to me, I just let a .45 caliber do its job in its original way. Why mess with a good thing.  
I find a manhole cover; it will take me where I need to go good enough. It’s weight doesn’t even register, only a single finger needed to lift it and set it aside. I hold it over my head as I jump into the opening, release it just at the right. I continue down. It reseals the opening. Flawless.  
As is my landing. Water up to my ankles. Repugnant water, which of course, should go without saying considering I am standing in a sewer. My boats were made for this kind of thing – trudging through the unsavory, waterproof all the way. The scents are worse down here. Much worse. Having one of – if not the – most sensitive olfactory senses in the world isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, but I have waded through the dead and dying before, blood and viscera abound, many times before. Once more won’t make much of a difference.  
My hearing is also very damn good, even in these concrete tunnels where echoes bounce around like a rubber ball, I can always find the origin of the sounds, differentiate, and track whichever one I need or want to. I run – silently – and it amazes me that these strigoi are at a standstill. They are neither running from or toward me. They must sense me. Fledglings they are, but they still must know that an ancient enemy approaches, one perfectly capable of cutting the vicarious thread that clings them to a semblance of living.  
When I am upon them, slowing to round the corner, guns drawn, they are meandering around like blind children. They sniff the air, they know I am near, and even when their soulless eyes find me in the dark, they only hesitate a few seconds before going back to whatever the hell it is they are doing, which seems to be some grotesque rendition of Ring-Around-The-Rosy.  
These are not the creatures of old. Those who crawled out at night and terrorized the living. They are shells, the clown version of the creatures that my clans once fought.  
I make short work of them. Even as a bullet from each of my guns pierces the brainpan of two of them, the others do nothing for a few moments. Two more and they finally seem to register that I’m there and that I’m a threat.  
Five of them hurl their stingers at me. I easily dodge while firing, putting them down before moving on. More stingers. More bullets and as I put down the last one, twenty-three in total, I sense him again. Closer this time. I was right. He is aware of me also. He is a warrior, through and through. Much older than the mere six hundred an forty-six years I have been waling this earth.  
The bodies at my feet are no more akin to him than they are to me, though it was his ‘father’ that created them. He was born unto darkness, a taint that he has overcome quite well. I doubt, however, he would agree to that, but it’s the truth. I have gleamed the circles that know about him, a mystery, an enigma, and all that has he remained, but I have absorbed what knowledge of him I could. These we fight are our common enemy. He is alone in this world, the last of his kind, and while I am one of many, I’m pariah among them. They no longer except me as one of their own. That was a path I choose. I regret it none.  
Now, at least, after more than half my life an exile, mayhap another in this world as shunned as I am.  
We should work well together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going ahead and posting 2 chaps since this one is where my character and Q meet. I try to keep in the present tense and hope I have caught all the confusing tenses switches. If I haven't, I'm sorry.
> 
> And I do take some things to fill in the history of my Lycans from Underworld, but that is all. Just a basis but also mixed in with various other sources. So this is in no way a crossover or anything of the sort.
> 
> Oh and I own nothing and no one is paying me and blah blah blah blah blah.

I can hear his boot heels _clicking_ on the street a few blocks over from where I emerge, same manhole, all nicely tucked away once again. The noise he is making is a formality of a form, but it likens more to an ‘I come in peace’ gesture, one that he doesn’t need to afford me. After all, he is the elder one here, not counting the Ancients who hide, for they mean nothing. It is noise he doesn’t have to make, wouldn’t make if he choose not to. He knows what I am, isn’t hiding that fact, but he knows of the danger I pose to him, even though I don’t really. I have no reason to harm him. There isn’t anything in me that feels the need to. He is different from those that he is closest kin to, and with him I have no fight, while the rest of my species may think differently. He and I fight for the same side, as I see it, and we would be much better allies than enemies. Both of us have enough of those all ready.

I wait patiently for him to come to me. In the old way, it was what was expected. He rounds the corner, wrapped in darkness, fitted close to his person, and whispering about him. He smells so very different from both of his kind. His veins do not sing with human blood as the layer under his skin doesn’t writhe with taint of the strigoi. Power corded in muscles long used to labor of one sort or another. Face hidden under a hood, but I can see the outline of his frame, his body giving off a heat that myth wouldn’t have one believe was possible. The scent he does have is, as I said before, familiar, but it is so different from every other scent I have come across, and that is saying something. Believe it or not, it is pleasant to my senses. 

I keep my hands loose at my side, not up in surrender, and away from my guns that I keep strapped at the small of my back. I want to be as nonthreatening as possible, even more so than I need to be. He knows what I am, what I am capable of, what I can do, even to him, and he won’t see my actions as those of a weak, frightened person. He knows them as they are, my respect of a better, because even though there is a slender chance that I am stronger, he earned my respect long before my birth.

He walks with purpose, a stride of a warrior who has seen many battles and is still standing. He is taller than I thought he would be, about my height. I can hear the rumble as he draws breath into his lungs. The exhale produces a cloud of frost that disappears in the wind. He stops ten feet from me, and is still for a moment, before reaching up with gloved hands to push the hood away.

Like the creatures he is half akin to, he is hairless. Blue veins visible under pale skin. A scar there and another there, the mark an angry red tinged with deep purple about his throat, the mark of his ‘father’, the Master. Eyes pale blue seemingly lifeless, but I can see the soul, something no strigoi possesses, that burns behind them.

“You are Lycan.” It isn’t a question. A statement. A fact. I nod my head once in accord.

“I am Inris, _Signore. Ego sum in conspectu tuo in aeternum._ ”

It is a good habit to speak to one in their native tongue. Granted he was born nearly two thousand years ago, orphaned from birth, and though raised in a Rome very different from the one that stands today, he might not speak the language or the more modern version like I was.  
He tilts his head to the side ever so slightly and gazes at me, silently; studying me with an expression I can’t read. Finally, he inclines his head in approval of my words, though I believe that not only caught him off guard, but that he is unworthy of such devotion from me. 

“I haven’t seen one of your kind in a long time,” he states. His stance loosens slightly, a vague relaxation of his shoulders, a minor shift in his hips and legs. No less wary, but not as concerned.

I want to say that I have _never_ seen one of his kind before, since he is the fifth and last of his kind, and even when the other four had been walking this earth, I had not set gaze upon them. But I refrain from stating the obvious. 

“The clans are not as numerous as they once were, but it has been decided they no longer wish to acknowledge the world around them and thus remain apart from it.” My tone is bitter. 

“And yet you are here. On your own.”

“We haven’t seen eye-to-eye for centuries now. I’m nothing to them as they are nothing to me. I’m a clan of one.”

His lips upturn, again a motion so minor, in what could be the beginnings of a smile. A human wouldn’t catch the change and he’s been alone for quite some time and when he wasn’t, he was surrounded by mortals. He is unused to the scrutiny my being a Lycan puts him under. All the small nuances won’t escape my attention. He doesn’t seem to mind this either. In fact, the smile widens a little bit more and he relaxes further. 

“It would be wrong to say that your being here is not welcome.” He looks over his left shoulder then. Testing the air. I can feel the tension in him return. 

“There are only…Thirty-three of them.” I say and the sound he makes was one similar to an amused chuckle. 

“Short work for the likes of us.” His words are barely above a whisper, but I hear them well enough. He turns back to me and nods back over his shoulder. I return the gesture and we set out for our quarry. 

It _is_ short work. Seconds. It took us longer to find them then to rid the city of them. When you can pull the trigger as fast as we can and don’t have to worry about recoil, not to mention move as fast and sure as we can, things don’t take too long at all.

I was right: we do work well together.

We start walking together, silence our companion. I keep a few steps behind him and to his right. He half-glances back at me a few times as we walk. Finally, he slows his stride just enough, and quickly to catch me before I fall back, and he looks at me.

“Why are you doing that?” He asks. “It can’t be because of…” He trails off and a sigh, the rumble in his chest of the air in his lungs is strangely soothing to me. I know what he speaks of.

“Trust me,” I say with a breathy laugh. “It has nothing to do with that.” And by ‘that’ I mean ages ago when the Ancients kept Lycans as pets. ‘Pets’ meaning slaves. “Nothing of the sort. It’s respect, that’s all.”

He opens his mouth then closes it again, shaking his head. He wonders why I respect him so much having just met him and all. I marvel as to why he doesn’t realize why I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying it!
> 
> Ego sum in conspectu tuo in aeternum -- (Latin for) I am forever at your disposal.


	3. Chapter 3

I pride myself on my proficiency with my current weapon of choice, and I have used a great many different weapons in my time. Swords, axes, all types of guns, bows, crossbows, even a cannon or two. You name it, I’ve used it. But as proficient as I deem myself to be, my ability pales in comparison to his.

Perfect is not a word to be thrown around lightly. However, I can come up with no other word that sums up the faultless execution of his attacks and the damn-near mesmerizing way in which he moves as he does so. If Death is a dance, then the way he apportions it out is a refined waltz, as beautiful as it is lethal.

I remember to aim my weapons and fire. Does no one any good if I stand about staring at him like a still-nursing pup. As I do so, aim and fire, aim and fire, we set into a rhythm, as if we’ve done this repeatedly over the many long years that stretch out behind us. 

In all but an hour, I’ve come to grasp having a partner is a very good thing, especially one who can keep up with you, won’t blink when you turn into a raging, howling beast, and doesn’t get broken easily.

By the time the clocks in the city chime out the midnight hour, at least a hundred and fifty strigoi can no longer cause any more problems. The night is still young, especially to us who feel more comfortable in it than we do the daylight, and the air is cool, if not still a little fetid. 

I take a partial seat on the trunk of a dark blue Impala, the heel of one boot resting on the bumper. My guns are still in my hands, two bullets a piece left in each clip, and I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I’d smoke if I had any cigarettes, a habit that wasn’t a habit, one I partook of very little, but enjoyed when I was a mind to.

He stands a few feet away, his back to me, eyes studying all around him, while his senses are attuned to the signs of danger in the vicinity. And, just like that, it comes to me, out of the blue. All I know about him, which wasn’t much to begin with, but now an important detail drifts into my mind seemingly all of its own.

“You are called ‘Quinlan’, though you have been known by other names.” Again something new, but as if I’ve known it all along. 

He half-turns, looking over his shoulder at me, that look of amusement on his face again. “Yes.” He fully turns and closes the distance between us, taking a seat next to me on the car; both boot heels on the bumper, elbows on his knees. The end of his sword, sheathed, taps on the fiberglass once as he does so. The femur bone that serves as the handle of the blade is an incredible artifact, one I studied as we walked about the city this night. “If you don’t mind my saying, but ‘Inris’ is not a name I’ve heard before.”

“I suppose not,” I chuckled. “It’s actually a female elf’s name from Tolkien. _The Fair_ is what it supposedly means.”

“Your parents are fans of Tolkien?”

“My mother is. My father can read but thinks it isn’t ‘alpha-manly’ to do so.” I shrugged, chuckling again. “One of my older brothers told me that when I was born, since I was so light in coloring, our father declared that I was not his son and therefore my mother must have committed adultery which she not only denied, but flogged him for even saying it. He then told her to name whatever she wanted because he didn’t care so she swept a random book off a shelf, opened it, and the first name her eyes fell upon was ‘Inris’. My father said that was a great name for me and out he strolled. The only communication they had for six weeks was when he was brave enough to stick his head in the chamber doors and she tossed whatever was at hand at his head, cursing him tirelessly.”

He laughs at that, a soft sound, one that would be easily missed to anyone in this city but I. “How many siblings do you have?”

“I am the fourteenth son, the twenty-first child all together. I have fifteen brothers and eight sisters.”

We sat in silence for about ten minutes more and then he chuckles yet again, this time a little bit louder. “I can’t imagine a Lycan clan’s daily life.”

“It’s a whirlwind of chaos, full of threats of and actual bodily harm, shouting, cursing, devouring of food, things like chairs and the sort breaking on a regular basis, and a ridiculous amount of whining about how boring or unfair life is and exaggerated boasting about make believe battles, and declarations of one day being as feared again as we once were.”

“You don’t miss it at all, do you?”

“Not one damn bit. Though, there was this one time, back in …oh, I believe it was 1693, right in the middle of the famine that nearly decimated France. I saw all those people dying, heard my own stomach rumbling, and thought how easy it would be to go back home. All I had to do was denounce and apologize for who I was and why I had turned my back on the tradition of the Lycans and I could eat until I burst. But I stubbornly refused to do so and I’m glad I did.”

We both knew now is not the time to ask exactly why I’ve been exiled. We both have many more miles to go down this road and there is a constant echo in my head telling me that many of those miles we will travel together. The extent of this and any other circumstances are unknown and dwelling upon the possibilities are for another time also. 

I ask him about the Coliseum in Rome. He was a gladiator in that very structure back when it was whole and newly built. He speaks of his life there, as a slave first and then a gladiator, the battles he fought and won. 

“I still hold the record of being undefeated, even to this day.” That is a good laugh for both of us and at that moment the church bells ring two in the morning. “It has been a long time since I have spoken about things that didn’t revolve around my _father_ and the strigoi.” He is wistful for a moment, a bitter smile on his face. “There aren’t many good memories, to have lived for so long at least. Being a slave in Rome was not an ideal situation, but things could have been much worse for me.” He stares off down the street, not seeing it at all, before shaking himself and shifting his eyes to mine. “We should get moving. If you care to, I have shelter not too far from here. You are welcome, if you don’t mind the constant commotion the humans who also reside there make.”

It sounds good to me. After being on an airplane for sixteen hours and fighting strigoi pretty much since the second I arrived, a place to rest that is secure sounds more than wonderful to me. Hell, a blanket thrown on the floor sounds good, so much better than being on a plane. In the air. I shiver at the thought of flying. I hated it. If I’d been meant to fly, I’d have been born with wings. I’m a wolf, damn it, we are meant to have both feet – or all four as the case may be – on the ground. 

As before when we walked, I follow just a step behind, as it will remain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos! And a big THANKS to Slypride11 for telling me to keep posting!
> 
> On the show, is there a name for the place they are staying, the place that apparently Quinlan owns or is paying for or whatever? Have they mentioned it and I missed it or no?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update last week but I was sick and since I don't have internet at home, I had to wait until I felt like going somewhere I could log on. Sorry.

The Olympian Club is housed in an old building, at least by this city’s standards, sturdy and strong, but there’s too much decoration. There are many things about mortals that still puzzle me after so long, and one is their need for clutter. Vases they have on display, dusted and shinny, were made to be used and just because they managed to survive the ravages of time, don’t mean they are any less useful. Much of it is just shameful.

The top floor is where he resides and I’m surprised to learn there are humans living here also. I don’t and never have seen humans as a food source, unlike my companion who must have their blood to survive, but my sire and his siblings did at some point and still to this day, I am sure, he refers to humans as ‘cattle’ or ‘sheep’ and nothing else. But as far as feeding on them, not even the Lycans who still cling stoically to the ‘old ways’, practice that anymore. But, as I said before, Quinlan does need blood to sustain him, so the fact that he resides with humans and doesn’t feed on them is surprising.

I can smell them and hear them as we exit the elevator. As we walk the long hall it is strange to me how it has only been a few hours, yet it feels so much longer. There is already a pattern to our movements, anticipation that each of us unconsciously follows to stay in sync. Humans have no idea what it’s like to live so long, to be around others every day, and yet be alone. It’s hard for one to understand that kind of loneliness, being the only one of your kind among thousands – millions – of others. Not to the extent that he and I do, and even I don’t understand it like he does. 

He doesn’t hesitate at the door leading in. He opens both, almost with a flourish, and the humans stop talking all at once. I’m only that one step behind him, so when I immediately enter after him, their gazes settle on me, the looks on their faces varied and varying, each amusing.

“Vasilly Fet,” he motions to the younger of the two with nonchalance, “and Professor Abraham Setrakian,” said with much more respect than he gave the others, “this is Inris –” he hesitated for just a second, “– Blackwood.” All of this was said without deviation from course nor a slow in pace.

“Gentleman,” I turn in stride to face them, a mid-level bow while walking backward, before spinning about, and continuing on my way, which is also his way. Down a hall, around a corner, and into a large room – tables, chairs, desk, armoire, bed, television amongst other things. Without being told, I close the doors behind us and stand there, waiting.

While removing his weapon’s harness, he speaks: “Professor Setrakian is a good man, for a human.” He manages only a slight sneer at the word ‘human’. “He has been hunting the Master for a long time and is devoted to the cause. Mr. Fet is an exterminator for the city. He has his moments and is useful at times, but we have our…disagreements.”

I can’t help but chuckle at that. I’m sure they do. Alpha males, especially when two of those had no idea what the word truly meant and the other one, the third, did, had a tendency to butt heads more often than not, especially in a situation like this one.

“Human are nothing if not stubborn. They also have a tendency to believe they are at the top of the food chain.” 

He smiles again, coat and jacket peeled away and lain over the back of a chair. “Make yourself at home.”

I’m more than happy to do so. Jet-lag, no sleep, not having ate properly in a few days, and all this fighting is starting to wear on me. Once I get a good night’s sleep, a shower, and some food (not necessarily in that order), I’ll be good as new.

One never lays their weapons down unless they know one of two things: the first is that you can absolutely trust other people not to move or bother with them in any way for any reason and the second thing is that you can reach them easily if need be.

Since I trust Quinlan inexplicably (amazing considering we have only known each other for a night) and being what I am, I can get to them quickly if this penthouse is suddenly set upon by a horde of strigoi, I set them down on the coffee table, eyeing the furniture as I gaze around. I’m really worried about dirtying the obviously expensive articles about the room.

“When I said ‘make yourself at home’, I meant it.” He is standing across the room, watching me, amusement in his eyes, but his face impassive. “The shower is back there,” he nods over his shoulder, “and feel free to use the bed as you wish. It’s yours for as long as you wish to stay.” Vampires don’t sleep, not the way humans and Lycans do at least. “I’ll ask the Professor about food for you.”

Maybe we aren’t exactly reading each other’s minds, but there is something happening that was pretty damn close to it. Either that or he is anticipating my needs, which is amazing all in itself if he is.

“Thank you,” I say. He nods and then leaves the room. Left the room, weapons still laying in the chair his coat is draped over. 

I make my way to the bathroom, stripping down, and getting under the shower spray, the water so hot the room is soon full of steam. I want to stand there for an hour and just let the water run over me, but I’m tired and besides, that is quite a bit selfish anyway.

Once out of the shower, I find a towel and dry off. I wipe the condensation from the mirror and look at myself for a split second: I don’t look anywhere near my over six-hundred years. In fact, people often guess my age to be about twenty-two or so. As I had told Quinlan, I was born lighter-colored than my kin. While all of them are dark-haired and eyed, my hair is stark white and my eyes silver flecked with blue and grey. I run my fingers through my hair roughly, leaving it in a mess some high-end saloons charge hundreds of dollars to accomplish for clients with too much damn money. 

I’m still alone in these rooms. It takes no effort at all to find Quinlan in the building. I can hear the humans: talking, breathing, and moving. 

One would think that being in a strange place amongst people they didn’t know would keep one from sleeping comfortably. It doesn’t. I clean the bathroom as good as I can (a lesson taught to me by my mother – always clean up after yourself!), lay my clothes neatly on the foot of the bed (they are the only ones I have), and crawl into bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was sick, I did write seven chapters and started on an 8th, so there are 17 chapters so far. I wish my DVR hadn't deleted episodes 1 and 2 of this season and I wish I could get season 2 so if there are any discrepancies between what I'm writing and my attempt to add in stuff from the season, I'm sorry about that.
> 
> THANKS FOR READING AND FOR THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS!! I'm very glad you guys like it!!


	5. Chapter 5

I wake up after what seems as if it’s only been a few minutes after falling asleep to find the sun high in the sky outside the window. I lay here for a few minutes more, just staring out at that sky. Blue and cloudless, giving no hint as to the horror and destruction that was going on in the city streets and beneath them.

My senses tingle, drawing my attention away from the illusion outside. I shift, sitting up, as the doors open and Quinlan steps in. In his hands is a bundle I recognized as my clothing, clean and neatly folded. 

“We aren’t barbarians - _yet_ ,” he states, setting my newly laundered clothes on the foot of the bed before retreating to where his weapons lay. “The Professor is preparing dinner. I took the liberty of telling him you won’t be joining them and will bring your food to you.”

“Good. I would say let them wonder about the eating habits of Lycans, but they don’t know that I am one.” I reluctantly climb out of bed and get dressed. Scents from the kitchen are reaching my nose, making my stomach growl in response. I mentally tell my stomach to ‘shut up’.

“I haven’t had reason to tell them yet,” he admits, taking a seat on the couch facing the window I had just been staring out of moments before. “The Professor should be told. He knows some about your people I am sure, but he would be interested in knowing more if you wish to tell him. Your blood will be especially fascinating to him. As for Mr. Fet, I doubt he trusts you now, since he doesn’t trust me, and he knowing what you are won’t change that.”

Lycan blood, when it comes to strigoi, is like the cure that kills the patient. It destroys the worms that infest a strigoi’s body and thus kills the strigoi, but it is the worms it attacks, not the host. It eats them away, like acid, thus why they never try to feed on a Lycan. But, then again, he is only half...

Barefoot, I make my way over and sit down next to him, a space between us, and once again study the sky. There is now a single, skeletal cloud floating slowly by. 

“From up here, one could forget the turmoil in this city,” I say, staring at the cloud as if I have never seen one before. It looks as if it’s breaking up as I speak, not having the strength to be cloud anymore. Or maybe it has just lost the desire.

I hear the breath draw in and out of his lungs, the sound the action makes soothing, just as it had been before. 

“Not only in this city,” he responds and it’s true. It’s easy to turn a blind eye to what is happening, no matter where it was happening, and it isn’t just humans that do this. My people are also very damn good at it.

There is profoundness in silence, and intense things happen in it. For example, the bonds between us, the ones that have happened with ease and instantaneously, are strengthening. It is a perceptive occurrence, can almost hear it happening and it should be a strange thing. The reason for that is because Lycans bond with their immediate clan, though those bonds aren’t as strong as they were in the age when they hunted and patrolled in packs, but the bonds are there. I no longer have those bonds since I am an outcast, no longer a member of my family. Those ties are severed. Lycans also bond with a mate, but we are cautioned against taking a mate outside our species, but I’ve heard tales of it having been done, but anyone who mates with a Lycan, either becomes one or dies a painful death, and the odds of becoming a Lycan are slim to none, and that is the best case scenario.

Quinlan can’t – won’t – bond with strigoi and since he is the only dhampir left, he can’t bond with others like him. Even when there were other dhampirs, he kept his distance from them, only training them to be Sun Hunters, and never forming any ties of any kind with any of them beyond that.

Are these reasons why this connection is happening so readily between us? Is our own individual lack of attachments making us more open and nonresistant to this – whatever this is? It‘s not a bond of brotherhood. Nor is it just based on survival or war or anything of that nature. There is much more to it. Those bonds don’t expose so much. Anticipation on the battlefield, yes, but this goes beyond that, I can feel it, and if we allowed it –

“Odd,” he whispers. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” I answer back just as quietly. “I would say ‘we barely know each other’ but that wouldn’t be the truth.”

“Not anymore.” Silence about us, but inside is a different matter. “I never – I thought…This doesn’t make me any less pleased you are here.”

I laugh. “I know and I’m just as pleased as well.”

The moment is interrupted by a knock at the door. He sighs in annoyance, before standing and going to the door.

“Food for your friend,” said the one I believe is Fet. Russian. Slovakian? “Professor says there’s plenty more if he wants it.”

Quinlan thanks him while taking the food and then shutting the door. I stand as he places a loaded tray on the coffee table. Lycans aren’t formal, though we have better table manners than some believe we do. I’m hungry, though, and the food smells wonderful. I sit down on the floor where the tray is in front of me and draw in a deep breath of the aroma.

“Enjoy.” Amusement in his tone and I can feel it also. His amusement makes me amused even more. I chuckle around a mouth full of food, making myself keep some control and not scarf the food down like an animal. 

Ten minutes later, Quinlan is reading as I’m finishing up the last bite, wishing for more and about to get up and go make that wish come true, when there’s another knock at the door. It opens before either Quinlan or myself care to reach it (our superhuman agility and speed napping) and the human called Fet peeks around the door.

“Hey. Professor said you’d still be hungry so here.” He walks in quickly and sits another plate of food in front of me, scooping up the empty one as he does. “He was right, I see.” He begins walking backwards. “That’s good. Very good. 

“Thank you,” I tell him, sincerely meaning it.

“Hey, no problem.” His gaze shifts behind me where Quinlan is. “Ok. I’m going. Damn. I was just bringing him some more food like the Professor told me.” He backs out the door and closes it. I can hear him grumbling all the way down the hall about ‘appreciation’ and something about ‘half-muncher’.  
Quinlan returns to his book, and in my head, as I eat, I’m visualizing the words in my head as he reads. It truly is a fascinating experience, whatever this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I put that in there about Quinlan reading a book. He's only been seen reading the pages from the Lumen, but for some reason I picture him sitting down and reading something old, or at least not from this century or the last.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to go ahead and post another 2 chapters since I might not be online again until next week. I hope you enjoy!!

We begin a routine of hunting for Strigoi during the day. Quinlan is, after all, a sun-hunter, trained and having trained others for hunting in the daytime when the strigoi were at their weakest. The way they act during the day, nesting tightly together for some reason or another, groggy and slow, senses next to nothing, you would think it was some kind of hibernation. But they’re easier to find and easier to kill, so we made it out mission to take out as many as we’re able while the sun was up.

Quinlan wears his hood low over his face to block out the sun’s rays. Given the fact that he is half-strigoi and half-human, and let’s not gloss over the fact that he is nearly two-thousand years old, the sunlight is less harmful to him then strigoi, but it could still cause some discomfort and pain. Actually, sunlight isn’t the problem: it’s the damn UV rays, and those are worse on cloudy days than sunny days.

I always walk that one step behind him. There are times when he’ll slow a step or two or speed up just a fraction. He does this to make sure I’m paying attention and will keep our pattern up. It becoming almost like a game.

Everyday for two weeks, we leave the Olympian Club just before sunup and usually return sometime around dusk. We spend most of the day hunting, fighting, destroying, but there are also times when we just search stores and the like. He may not like the humans we reside with very much (though he had a great amount of respect for Professor Setrakian), but he isn’t above taking something they may need if he comes across it.

I’ll let you in on a little secret about me – I am a clothes horse. Any other time, I would have a closet full of shirts, jeans, jackets, vests, boots, and belts. Even a tie or two and rings and bracelets and socks and sweaters. If I find something I like, I usually get it in three or four different colors just to cover all my bases. So, while we stroll through abandoned stores, most of them looted already (and most with a surprising amount of Strigoi hiding here and there), I’m able to broaden my wardrobe from one set of clothing and one pair of boots to an abundance of choices. All of it would’ve been bloody expensive – if I’d had to pay for it, that is. I also find myself bringing in articles of clothing more suitable to a certain someone. It doesn’t hurt to have more options in the wardrobe department, though he has yet to partake of those options. He has, however, spent a few moments here and there studying the now nearly capacity full closet on more than one occasion. It’s only a matter of time, I’m sure.

Living with humans isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Sure, they make a lot of noise, even when they think they are being quiet. I can hear the blood in their veins, smell it, and they talk – _a lot_ , sometimes only to themselves or even to inanimate objects. 

The Professor is a knowledgeable man, especially about Strigoi, and he wants to learn all I can tell him about Lycans which, incidentally, I know quite a bit about. Mr. Fet, though he and Quinlan don’t think much of each other, isn’t too bad. He never says anything about Quinlan, not around me, and as long as he keeps his opinions to himself I don’t mind talking to him. 

It isn’t difficult to find strigoi in the city, but there were so many of them and they were all…fledglings. Untaught ones at that. When we encounter them, they’re wary of me, but I get the sense they don’t know why they should be. It is an instinctive reaction to me, but there is no understanding of what I am and why exactly they should be on their guard. The Master has not taught them well.

On this particular night, we’ve been attacked numerous times. Ambushed would be a better word, though their actions aren’t as deceptive and cunning as assumed to be believed. Neither Quinlan or I believe that is their true intent. The Master knows that getting the drop on one of us, let alone both of us, would be very difficult. He is testing us. Pushing against our defenses, watching us through their eyes.

Quinlan is very upset about this, angered by it a great deal. He’s not one to give in to tantrums or to show his anger in violent ways, but when he is agitated I feel it keenly, and when he paces back and forth, sword in hand, his movements slow, belaying how he truly feels, it is a message that isn’t hard to miss.

“He’s learning,” he states in the darkness of the tunnel we are in. We’ve just killed thirty strigoi, their corpses strewn all about the area, the worms spilled from their flesh still writhing. “He’s watching and he’s learning. He sees.”

“Sees what?” I ask, truly not knowing. A bond we may have and we may not understand it, but it’s there and we both know it. And he, being older and wiser, has come to the ability to ‘block’ certain things from me, things he doesn’t want me to know. This is one of those things. I know there are a few things he has been keeping from me and he has been blocking something from me for a few days now, ever since the strigoi attacks have been becoming more precise. “The Master sees what?”

He hesitates for a few moments more. I press against his resistance – I have learned a few things also in our time together – and he gives a little. Finally he faces me, sighing softly.

“He sees you.”

I know there is more to it than just the Master _seein_ g me. I know he does through his puppet’s eyes, but Quinlan isn’t being vague or elusive. 

“To what end?”

“He’ll know. He is my _Fathe_ r. There is a bond between us. If he doesn’t already, then he will discern this…” He trails off for a moment. I know what he means. The bond again. While he and I know it, we don’t question it. Nor do we talk about it. We have silently decided to let it run its course, whatever and to wherever end that may be, and if the need ever arises, then we will put words to it, which ones are appropriate to do so. It’s not like there is anyone we can ask to explain it to us, so we deal with it the best way we can, which in a way is not at all. 

So this is what he’s been keeping from me. If we don’t talk about it, spend too much time dwelling on it, and then it can remain hidden from the Master a little while longer. As long as it remains undefined then it can’t be used against us.

“He’ll use me against you. Kill me just to spite you.” 

“It is something he has done before.”

Memories from so long ago. I’ve seen these memories through his eyes, felt what he felt, the love and devotion. It stirs me more than a little that he compares me to that which he had and treasured so long ago. 

He closes his eyes and that sound. That purr from inside his chest. He shakes his head, brushing it away. We feel what the other does. He felt the stir in me. Not only that, but he echoes it. 

Not the time or place, however. I wonder of the other things he hides from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for reading!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did intent for this fic to be a "slow burn" but apparently living a certain amount of centuries hasn't taught these two very much in the way of patience. So this and the next that I won't be able to post until next week is at their insistence (YEAH! RIGHT!)
> 
> Enjoy!!!

Two days later we find ourselves wandering the streets. It is midday. The sun is nowhere in sight. Dark clouds dominate the sky and heavy droplets of rain pelt us frequently.

Quinlan has his hood pulled low, his eyes covered by sunglasses. I only wear mine because of how light refracts off my eyes and humans have a tendency to look at me funny when that happens. 

I don’t mind the cool rain even though it was soaking through my clothes and dripping into my boots, making them _squish_ as I walk. We aren’t long from having obliterated a small nest, roughly fifty or so, and we apparently aren’t in any hurry to get back to the Olympian. It’s almost like we’re out for a leisurely stroll. One where we are well armed and ready for a fight if it comes our way.

I’m walking that one step behind him and slightly off to his right side. He is still perplexed as to why I insist on doing this. 

We are walking along in silence. He has moods, like everyone does, but his serious mood doesn’t coincide with serious situations necessarily. He’s either serious or not. He can be playful and easy to amuse or he bottles himself up and cloaks himself in solemnly as effortlessly as he dons the long coat he wears.

“You know I do this out of respect,” I tell him out of the blue. “Mostly.”

His step slows a wee bit and I instinctively slow also to match his gait. “Mostly?” His tone is both curious and wary. “What other reason do you have?”

I shrug, a motion he can’t see, and I answer: “I also enjoy watching you walk.”

This stops him in his tracks and if it weren’t for the legendary canine grace gifted to me by my Lycan blood, I’d’ve bumped into him. Instead a spin forward, brushing his shoulder ever so slightly as I complete my spin, still off to his right, but now one step in front of him, facing him. His face is visible but his eyes aren’t, and his posture is telling me nothing. I can, however, feel this shroud of melancholy emanating from him. 

We stand there, hushed, getting assaulted by the rain, for several moments. Finally he shakes his head and informs me: “You’re incorrigible.” He steps around me and continues on down the block. I catch up to him and resume my place.

“No. Seriously. It’s true. Why do you think I follow you around the… you know, residence we abide in…place. Nice with the coat, but I have to admit, _so_ much nicer without it.”

He slows again, and if he were human I would’ve thought he stumbled. “Insolent pup,” he mumbles, knowing I can not only hear him but can detect the teasing in his tone.

I laugh raucously. I love when he returns the playfulness. I also love how I’m able to turn his mood so easily, especially with the truth. He hasn’t been very receptive to my truth - my belief in him and how I perceive him. Not in all instances anyway.

Another block and we hear it. The sounds of the human patrol units sweeping the city block-by-block, building-by-building, searching for survivors and strigoi.

I see the truck, or just the front of it anyway, as it prepares to either head straight or turn down the block Quinlan and I are now on, and not a second more before I find myself suddenly pressed into the corner of a doorway, one deep off the street. 

The truck rolls by slowly, but the humans inside don’t see us where we are. The vehicle goes on down the block and onto another, soon the sound of the motor is many blocks away, and still he and I are motionless.

I must say I don’t mind my current position. He has my back pressed into the corner where wall, glass, and door frame meet. It is dark here and there isn’t any rain falling on us. His body is close to mine and I can smell him. Oh! Can I! His scent is entirely his and his alone, for I have never come across anything to liken it to in my life. It’s wonderful and intoxicating and I just want to bury my nose in his neck. The mark of the Master - that is a strong area of the scent. It has nothing to do with strigoi, he smells nothing like any of them. Their scent, even the Ancients, is the smell of death and decay, soulless husks that they are. 

I want to trace every line, follow every swirl with lips and tongue.

He purrs, the rumble from deep in his chest, and his hands tighten on me, and he pushes me even farther into the alcove so much that I hear the glass begin to crack. I match the sound he makes with my own, a snarl, deep and throaty, and I want nothing more than for him to mark me.

And he is prepared to do just that, right here, right now, but then he stops.

He pushes away from me and I want to protest and open my mouth to do so. This really isn’t healthy. You don’t let a Lycan get this… _motivated_ and then just walk away. 

But he isn’t walking away. He puts his hand on my chest to steady me, to calm me, and in the low-light of the alcove, I can see his eyes, in my sight they glow, and he is purring again, this time low and soothing.

“Not here,” he whispers to me. “Not like this.”

I nod slowly and then I take a deep breath and get myself under control. His hand leaves my chest and cups my cheek, gloved thumb tracing my bottom lip.

A few more moments, and then we step out into the downpour once more, and continue on our way.

I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets to keep from reaching out for him. I clench them into fists in an effort to stop them from trembling. I’m calmer, that is true, but my body still feels flames licking at my skin from the inside. His scent still lingers around me. It is wafting off of him, reaching me even through the wind and rain and churns around us. 

“I promise,” he whispers over his shoulder – in my head - and I believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little side note here: RPJ, no matter what the role, I do so love to watch that man walk, thus it inspires my character to enjoy the same about Quinlan.
> 
> Thank you!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'm posting two chapters. 
> 
> i am, of course, making this stuff up as I go along. The stuff in the chapter about Quinlan, back ground and so forth, have no basis anywhere except in my head.
> 
> Enjoy!!

We walked home in silence, keeping our thoughts to ourselves, always alert and mindful of what could be around each corner.

The humans weren’t around when we arrived _home_ ; I guess that is the word for it. It’s as close a place as any at this point. 

Once inside we made our way to the rooms in the back, the ones the humans referred to as ‘ours’. The humans never bother us here. Never knock on the door unless it’s absolutely necessary. We don’t care what they think about what we do back here. It isn’t any of their concern. Besides, it isn’t what they think anyway. Maybe - _hopefully_ \- that’s about to change though.

As we remove our weapons and set them aside, there is a tension in the air. Uncomfortable only because it is an undeniable truth now. A promise made. One that will be kept with all due intention. 

“In Rome, I made the March as Champion of the Arena on many occurrences,” he begins as he lays his long coat and hooded jacket on the back of a chair. “Neither man nor beast nor _both_ -” we both knew he was referring to Lycans – “could best me in battle. Though a slave, my ability, and success in the arena granted me remuneration I otherwise would not have been able to partake of otherwise.” He walks around the room and I follow his every move, am mesmerized by how he moves, and taken in by it as I am by everything he does. He is making a point, with both word and action, and I am eager to find the meaning he is hiding so well from me. “Many were… _captivated_ and curious about my capability, thus I had numerous admirers.”

Ah! Here we go. I smile to myself but keep quiet. 

“Admirers, young or old, rich or poor.” He comes around a table, fingers gently brushing the top as he does so, and I feel my heart beat quicker, wanting and needing, and he looks up, his eyes meeting mine, and it feels it too. “Male. Female. At that time, in Rome, it mattered not. Proclivities were the right of the privileged and I being undefeated and esteemed in the Great Coliseum, in the city, was given much leeway in my needs and diversions.”

The fire that roared while he and I were hidden in the alcove, the one that had burned down to red-hot coals on the walk back, was starting to come to life again. And I realize now that even though he isn’t aware of it or do it intentionally, his scent is full of pheromones. Strigoi don’t give off a mating scent of any kind because they aren’t capable and humans do, but it isn’t anything they themselves would detect, and other species wouldn’t care, but yet… he is.

He stops for a moment, staring off into nothing, and his head cocks to the side. “Interesting,” he murmurs, but then continues his trek around the room to where I stand.

“I am, therefore, familiar with affairs between two men. As I am with how it is viewed in this day and age. That doesn’t matter to me, what humans - _mortals_ \- think, certainly not where it concerns you and I.” He comes to a stop a few feet in front of me, his hands folded in front of him. “My concern is with you.”

“Me?” I’m puzzled. I have been and always will be an open book to him. I haven’t attempted to hide this attraction for him in any way, shape, or form. Concerned? For me? Why? And then – oh! “You are concerned for me in relation to the Master coming after me and killing me.”

“He would do so, yes, if only to cause me grief and pain. The thought of you suffering, by any amount, because of me, is unbearable.” He closes the distance between us, his fingers coming up to brush against my cheek. “I also know that like your cousins in nature, Lycans mate for life.”

“And if the prophecy is true and you kill the Master, and thus that act kills you, then I will be alone.”

“For the rest of your life which could be millennia.” His hand cups my cheek and I rub into it, my own hand coming up to wrap around his wrist. “Alone, without a mate –”

“No one knows if you will die after killing him. Not until it happens,” I argue. “And I don’t care. Even if you and I walk away from this, never allowing it to be more than what it is in this moment, it won’t matter, because you are still the only one I want to be with. Whether the prophecy is true or not, there will never be anyone for me but you. You are the one thing I am sure of and whatever time we have together – days, weeks, months, years, centuries, until this planet stops turning or flies out of orbit and into space – will never be enough, but I will not squander a moment of it.”

His arms come around me now, forehead to mine, eyes closed, and I throw all of my emotions into him. I want him to feel this. This ache, this need, this love that I have for him and him alone. The day I was born, my fate was sealed for that was the day that set in motion everything that has led to he and I being here.

“If that bastard wants to come and try to kill me, he’s going to pay hell doing it because even for one such as him, I won’t be easy to put down. I’ll make damn sure of it. I _will not go quietly or gently or willingly._ ” I move my head just enough to brush his lips with mine. 

For a few moments we are content with this, but then, with vampire reflexes and speed, he does something unexpected.

He grabs my head, yanks it to one side, and before I can utter a single sound, his stinger unfurls from beneath his tongue, and whips out, piercing the skin of my neck and it…is…complete…bliss.

Lycan blood replenishes quickly so there is no chance of him draining me dry. I had been told in my younger days that Lycan blood was much more potent than human blood, but strigoi couldn’t feed off of us because our blood was poisonous to the worms that infected them. I never found any proof of any of this, and everyone I asked didn’t know if it was fact or not, so I was a little skeptical.

But he is not dying or in pain or anything of that nature at all. 

I can feel my blood singing through his veins. The power. The almost drunk-like euphoria. It’s intense and wonderful.

The stinger is gone almost beyond my perception and I’m about to open my eyes and my mouth opening to say or do what I’m not sure, but then his lips are on mine, his arms pulling me as tight against him as is possible, and I forget every word of every language I know.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok. here we go.
> 
> I would like to say that this is really toned down for me, but chapters of like later will nto be. For some reason I didn't go real graphic in this chapter. A friend of mine told me that this is much less 'nasty' than what I usually write, which coming form her is a bit pot/kettle but whatever! I also usually write these chapters - SEX, let's stop beating around the bush here - and they twice as long as other chapters. so, I hope you aren't disappointed by this chapter.

I expect an interruption. A knock at the door. Strigoi by the hundreds having come up from the bowels of the city and are now running amok in the city streets. Duty calls. We must go and fight. That’s what usually happens, right?

Not this time.

There is no disturbance, no catastrophe that we must avert. Nothing. Just him and me. Alone. 

I have a moment where I am thinking we haven’t known each other very long. This bond, which is about to come full circle, has made it seem as if we’ve known each other for centuries. It’s as if everything that has happened to me, everything I’ve done, both good and bad, has all been necessary to lead me to this moment. To lead me to him.

He is still touching me, kissing me, and moving me, and by that I mean both figuratively and physically. My feet are shuffling backwards by his power alone for certainly I’m without any sense whatsoever. I’ve lost all will to do anything but what he wishes – wants – of me. 

Everything around us, everything but him, is distant to me. The momentary sensation of falling, the firm softness of the bed on my back, the cool air on exposed skin, these things are secondary to my senses. The heat of his skin against mine, the solidity of his body pressing mine into the mattress, his hands holding mine above my head, his lips on my skin. Those things are the center of my world.

He pauses and my world halts in its spin, though my head is having trouble following suit. Everything becomes so still, that the sound of my heart pounding sounds as if it can be heard throughout the city. 

“Are you sure of this?” He asks, more in my head than actually voiced and I nod my certainty. I’ve never been more certain of anything, but I repeat the question to him because mating for life means _mating for life_ , no matter how long that will be, even though I hope that a thousand years from now, we’ll be together still, looking forward to another thousand more. His answer resounds in my head and my heart and I’m filled with the joy of it. “Leave them still,” he tells me as his hands release mine. His body moves away from mine, above me as he sits up, and my hands clench as I fight to keep them from following to pull him back to me.

Soul is lain bare and my body is not far behind. There could never be anyone else for me. My heart, soul, mind, body, and blood will forever and always belong to him whether he takes them as I offer or not.

He does take what is so freely presented, given. What I have never offered another, never even for the slightest amount of time considered giving to another.

There isn’t any long, drawn out foreplay. No careful preparation. We are in no need of such things. He fits into me like a piece long missing and now regained. We move in a rhythm as if we’ve been performing this dance for oh-so very long. This coupling… it just _is_. Perfect. Beautiful. 

Warm hands on my heated skin, raising it in goose bumps. I clutch at his back, my fingers ghosting over the long, ropey scars there. His teeth sink into my collarbone, drawing blood which is lapped up. I wrap myself around him, anchoring, hanging on. Movement is intense, damn near violent, but we can handle it. There isn’t anything we can’t do to each other that won’t heal quickly or that will cause us very much pain. 

My lips find the point of an ear, and I trace it with tongue before teeth, a little sharper than they normally are, nibble. A deep, very audible purr before he shifts just enough for his lips to find mine again, much more aggressively. 

He rolls us and I find myself damn near suspended above him and then I am pulled down quickly, and I howl at the sensation. The humans would have to be completely deaf not to hear me and as dumb as dirt to not know what’s going on – if they were here that is, which they aren’t.

And they think him a eunuch. 

Up and down. Up and down. I fling my arms out wide, head thrown back, glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling. This is superb and exquisite and _perfect_. I know I keep using that word, and while I don’t have a limited vocabulary in the slightest, this is the only word that fits.

I bring my hands to my head and run my hands through my hair, out of my eyes, before resting my hands, palms flat on his chest. My eyes lock onto his, and his hands are on my hips, moving me how he wants me to move. I feel the movement just before he makes it, but instead of flipping us back over sideways, he surges up with me, and then I am on my back again, head nearly hanging off the bed like before. 

The tempo changes, speeds up, deep and terse, and then slows, shallow and almost gentle before shifting yet again. Another shift and I’m seeing stars, my vision dancing as he connects with that electrifying spot inside me. I want to howl again, and I feel the heat gather at the base of my spine and begin coiling. Around and around it goes, building up, and just when I think that this is going to last forever, it crests, explodes over my senses, and my body arches, so much so that I hear my spine _creak_ in momentary protest, and we’re holding onto each other and this is…

That word again.

Afterward, bodies cooling, breathing returning to normal, we are a jumble of entwined limbs, still intimately connected, and my brain works enough that I manage to get the words out just seconds before they dance from my mind to his.

“We’re going to do that again,” I say. I state. I declare. 

“And again and again and again,” he answers just before his lips find mine again. “For as long as we are able.”

Heavy words. Now that he is keeping nothing from me, (or not to the extent as he previously was at any rate) I understand what he means. It makes my heart clench in terror, the knowledge that I could lose him so very soon after finding him. To do what he was born to do will mean his death, and I don’t want him to do it, but can I really be that selfish?

Yes. I can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I wanted to stress the bond thing in this. As I stated, follow chapters of this nature will be much more graphic, as is my style. I hope that isn't a problem.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and commented. I forgot that in the last chapter because it is children's story day here and well, its noisy today. So thank you once again. I really appreciate the comments and you taking the time to let me know that you like this fic.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure about this chapter. It is from Quinlan's POV and I just don't feel I got his 'voice' right.
> 
> I will load another chapter Wednesday.
> 
> So here it goes. Hope it isn't too bad or too off character.

That night we first met, there had been this exasperating little voice telling me to “Turn around!” “Do not turn that corner!” “Do not look into his eyes!” 

I had done all those things and now see where I am.

The contours of his body fit so well with mine. Everything about him – about _us_ \- feels so natural to me. I can’t even make myself doubt the reasoning or question the absolute verity.

To say that until our eyes met along the length of a pavement, I wasn’t truly living is both profound and perplexing. One-thousand, nine-hundred, and seventy-six years I’ve been doing what I had to survive, learning what I needed to excel in my resigned fate, and being who and what I had to be to fulfill this prophecy of destroying my _Father_ and yet this _pup_ has, in such a miniscule amount of time, a time that is barely a ripple to the sea of my existence, altered the very plan of me as if it were the simplest of occurrences.

 

I look over at him. He’s fallen into a restful and deep sleep. Lycans can sleep through anything and will only wake if their senses tell them they are in mortal danger. As powerful as being a Lycan makes him, I could snap him easily. So proficiently, so cursorily, that he would never know. All I have to do is reach up, grip his head between my hands and twist…

I won’t and I know with utmost conviction that I never will.

Even in the limited light that pierces the room from outside the windows, he is a masculine specimen of beauty. Unmarred and unblemished. I know what he thinks of me, and how he can’t understand why I don’t understand why he thinks those things, but his elegance is a splendor I have ample amount difficulty accepting I am ever going to be close to.

He will strongly disagree with that sentiment and while I will always have my reservations and skepticism, I won’t dispute with his mind-set. He may see me as his ‘alpha male’, the dominate one in this… _relationship_ , but arguing with him is squandering of time and effort. I figured that out very quickly.

If I could pull him closer to me, if it were physically possible, I would. He nuzzles into my neck, his breath on my skin, on the mark, and I come to know that this…is…love.

Shouldn’t it jolt me more to come to this realization? Should I not be a blithering disarray of incredulity? Why am I so excepting of this insight so willingly?

Is this some trick? Was he sent just to detour me from my goal, the completion of the prophecy, ridding this world of the scourge that is the Master? To vex and bewitch? Is this all it seems, he and I drawn to one another, or is there some ulterior motive behind it all, one that will rear its dreadful manifestation at the most inopportune time? Is this truly the love that I feel it to be or is it just a cruel joke meant to torment me?

He mumbles in his sleep and his fingers dig into my skin as he manages to snuggle even closer. His lips brush the swirls at my neck, the mark of my sire, and in my head whispers words that give me hope.

“ _I love you._ ”

I believe them. For whatever reason he and I found one another, I believe this as the utmost truth. Whatever storm it brings, I will stand firm in the rage of it, just as long as he is beside me. And I will do what must be done when it is time to do it.

He is waking. His body pulls away from me just enough so his eyes find mine. The light reflects off the silver orbs, like they are mirrors and all he is and all he believes is right there. He was right earlier when he said he has always been an open book to me. 

He smiles at me and moves so he can rest his forehead against mine.

“I mean it. I do love you. I love because I can and because I want to. If the universe has some other reason for it, then we’ll deal with it if we have to. I just know what I feel. I will respect and defend this and you. So stop worrying about it. Go to sleep… Or your equivalent of.”

As simple as that. He tucks back in to me and back to sleep as of this maelstrom is not seething right outside.

I know he understands the implications. He knows what the Master is capable of, what he would and could do to him just to afford me pain and anguish. I know he is concerned with the truth of that, but he just doesn’t allow it to weigh his mind down. I feel the shivers of fear that force their way into his mind no matter how much he fights them. 

So, are we fools to continue on this course while aware of what the outcome could be? Should I force him away, even though every fiber of my being aches to pull him closer and keep him there, knowing what fate could be in store for him at the Master’s behest? Is it self-seeking to fight to keep him at my side? Is it madness to sneer in the face of what might, or might not, happen?

Though I don’t sleep like he or mortals, I do require rest of a sort, but my mind is fully aware, my eyes open, and my body in a constant state of readiness. It is nothing like sleep at all. I just allow my body to ‘drift’ of a sort. It is difficult to explain, but it is adequate. 

It is strange how my thoughts mingle with his and though I don’t dream, I can see his vividly in my mind. This is both odd and astonishing to me. I see them through my mind’s eye and I watch them with the veneration of a child. Very little makes sense, but not much of the brain does. 

If I were a religious person, I would pray for the best of this situation for he and I, but I have lived too long not to know better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have an unhealthy obsession with RPJ. Not only do I love Quinlan, but I find myself enamored with his character from Whitechapel and I have never even seen the bloody damn show. Just the fanvids of Chandler and Kent. LOL!! Love those two. Makes me wish i had seen the show. Also makes me want to write about those two, but I'm afraid to since I don't know the show. 
> 
> Anyway, more to come. I just started on the 25th chapter, but I am wondering what I'm to do with them until next year. 
> 
> Thanks again, says me the broken record.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't expect me to ever write another chapter from Q's view. I keep reading it and reading it and I wish I had never wrote it. I'm sorry it was so OOC and bad. 
> 
> I just started writing chapter 30!! YAY!!
> 
> Enjoy!!

Being underground isn’t pleasant. I don’t feel claustrophobic or anything of that nature. I just would rather be above ground, under the moon and stars, wind in my hair, and all that. I don’t feel the weight of all those buildings and concrete and glass pressing down on my head, nor do I feel stifled and unable to breathe. I just prefer being under the open sky.

I can see in the dark and discern echoes and their sources just fine, so I’m not at a disadvantage. Quinlan is likewise uninhibited by our current surroundings. However, I do find myself detesting the narrow tunnels we find ourselves in at the moment and we both can sense the strigoi not too far ahead of us.

I can feel his eyes on me in the moments just before I stop to keep from running into him. He has stopped and turned to face me. He doesn’t need to say anything to me. I know what he’s thinking.

“At least we don’t have the mortals trailing behind us,” I whisper in the dark. And by whisper I mean _whisper_. “All the damn noise they make, even when they think their being so quiet, is nerve grating.”

One eyebrow cocks ever so slightly. “It goes both ways. I can read your mind also.” 

I sigh and lean a shoulder against an all-too-near wall. Water is dripping somewhere, echoing about. “You have it in your head that you’re going to die once you kill him.” It angers me to think he is so willing to let it end. I know nearly two-thousand years is a long time, and he has faced a lot of pain and suffering in that time, but we have only been together, if you will, for such a short amount of time and –

“I did,” he says. “Want to let it end. That was then. Now, here you are, and I’ve changed my mind.” A knuckle briefly along my cheekbone, a brush against the side of my nose. “This bond could counter the one I have with the Master. You could literally save my life _when_ I finally fulfill what I’m destined to do.”

“Oh.” Not my most poignant response, but his words, as well as the emotions that go along with them, leave me unable to say anything more. 

“I need to stop keeping things from you,” he states with a slight shake of his head. “I don’t mean to. I have no fear of sharing everything with you. I just never expected to …” He trails off, searching for the right word, phrase, something.

“Have this opportunity,” I fill in for him. Truth it is and it wasn’t something I expected either. While the bond Quinlan and I feel is stronger than any I’ve heard of, all the ones that I have heard of were Lycan bonds of one form or another. He is unique – literally one of a kind – but he still isn’t a Lycan and it can’t all be chalked up to the blood. This bond was here before he drank from me. There is also a chance that this bond, being so much more and so much stronger than the one he has with the Master, could be powerful enough to cancel out his supposed death when – not if – he kills the Master.

“Some things aren’t meant to be understood, even by ones such as us,” he says aloud to my thoughts. His eyes are still focused on me. I smile at him and then I let him know exactly what I would rather be doing right now.

He chuckles. “Down, boy. We have work to do.” He turns from me and I follow him down the tunnel. “Most assuredly later, though. We might not even waste time going all the way back to the Olympian.”

I want to laugh out loud, but we have the element of surprise here. I don’t want to give us away until we fire our first shots.

I’ve learned that if a strigoi stops suddenly and its eyes turn red, then the Master can see and hear whatever or whoever is around that strigoi at that moment, which is usually Quinlan and I. I know this is a constant worry for Quinlan. He fears for me and what the Master might and could do to me. The Master knows about Lycans – how to make us suffer before killing us. He was around all those years ago when my ancestors used to be enslaved by him and his ‘brothers’. Quinlan doesn’t let him see or hear much. He cuts off the chosen strigoi’s head as quickly as possible, but he still fears that the Master has seen more than enough.

There aren’t many in the area we are coming upon. Only a dozen or so. Quick and painless is what we’re going for. Don’t want to give them any chance to relay our whereabouts or allow the Master to get a solid fix on us. 

They are barely mobile when we come upon them. Still shaking the dredges of the day from their selves. Between the two of us, it’s over in mere seconds, their white blood draining from single wounds to their heads. Just to make sure, he uses his bone-handled sword to behead them.

There are more still around. Pretty much in every direction and in various group sizes. This is a job that looks endless, but every road, no matter how long or rough, always has an ending, or at least a detour or two.

I think of what will happen once this is all over. If it is true, that this between us will keep him alive in the face of what he has been told would be his death in defeating the Master, then I allow my mind to drift to what will happen afterward. Where will we go? What will we do? I’m content with whatever he wishes, just as long as we are together; I’m really open to anything.

He has talked of the cities he loves and I share his sentiments, though I don’t know them like he does. I have seen Rome through his eyes, the Coliseum, the battles, the crowds. I have heard the cheers and the death cries. I’ll never experience it any other way, but I’d happily and readily make new experiences there with him if that is what he wants.

His fingers touch mine, drawing my attention fully to him. His gaze is steady, but what I see in his eyes sets me afire. For a few moments we stand here thus, fingers loosely entwined, lost in visions of future and promise and anticipation, before we once again meld with the shadows and continue on our hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter, much more than the last one.
> 
> (I am NOT picturing Sam Stockman as my character now. I swear!!!)
> 
> Thanks again!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what the hell! I'll add another chapter again.
> 
> I'm trying to get a little bit of a developing personality for Inris. i want him to grow and change a wee bit since I think Lycans blend in with humans obviously better than strigoi. So, over time, I have him changing some and his speech changing also. It just means he is getting comfortable in his surroundings.

The night passes and soon I can feel the pull of the sunrise as it washes over the city and beyond. I abruptly want to curl up around him, naked, in bed, and sleep the day away. Another chuckle from just ahead of me as I send that very graphic image across our link.

“Strange. Earlier sleep was what you wanted to do only after certain _activities_.”

“ _Activities?_ ” I snort in amusement. “Really, _dilectus_ , you make it sound like we play chess or Go Fish. Or shuffleboard or - Heaven forbid - tennis or golf. Something mundane and nowhere near requiring the stamina and completion and occasional balance that our _activities_ require.”

He’s laughing on the inside, I assure you. He also agrees wholeheartedly.

We take a path off the main tunnel, pretty much moving at random here. The strigoi are numerous and since everywhere we turn they are there waiting for us to end their pathetic existences, then we pretty much turn whichever way and go whichever where.

And that is when the first one turns up.

We step into the one area where there aren’t any strigoi. It is a small area, pipes lining the walls and steam rising from a few of them, but considering the state of the city both above and below ground, it is rather sterile and void of debris. Empty except for the two of us and – oh, by the way - _it_.

_It_ because neither one of us can tell what it is precisely. It hangs from the ceiling, a bleeding burlap sack, and I mean bleeding as in literally. It is soaked in fresh blood and a small pool of it congeals on the ground beneath it.

“Fresh kill,” I say as we approach it cautiously. 

“Not strigoi.” Not one dead because the blood is red and no strigoi has ever hung up a kill or left blood in one for that matter.

“So, who is killing humans and displaying them in such a manner?” 

“Why bother at all? Who do they think will find it in light of all that is currently happening?”

“We did.” I answer with a shrug and it takes both of us all of two seconds to lock gazes and ponder. “Us? Seriously?”

“Or anyone else who happens to be down here,” Quinlan surmised. He walked slowly around the hanging bundle, avoiding the blood on the floor.

“Fet, Eph, the Professor.” I eye the bundle suspiciously. “Or cops and military. Maybe the Councilwoman’s people.”

“It was left here on purpose for someone,” Quinlan said. He sniffed the air. “There is more than one person here.”

“Barmy,” I swore, finally stepping closer to the thing. I’m a Lycan. Blood and dismemberment don’t bother me, but this had to have been another human that did this. I can never understand why humans do such horrible things to one another. “I wonder where the rest of … _their_ bits ‘n bobs are?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

“What do we do about this?” I wondered also why the strigoi have left it alone. Fresh blood and all.

“I haven’t an idea,” he said to my unspoken thought. “We cut it down. And then…”

Really. What does one do with a bag of bloody body parts?

Cut it down and carry it out to where the fires constantly burn. Our only option really. As we go about our task, our minds drift to certain reasonings like why leave the thing there for someone to find but not set a trap of some sort? It wasn’t guarded or surveillanced in anyway. Whoever did this doesn’t seem to know what they are doing or why.

Morbid curiosity does get the better of us. Body parts from both male and female, young and old, are crammed into the large burlap sack, all of it weighing about one-hundred and fifty pounds. Fingers and toes, ears, eyes, some organs. The largest parts are the multiple feet that vary in size and color. There are parts of long bones, some sawed neatly while others are broken and shattered by a great force. 

“This is gross,” I growl. “What the bloody barmy hell?”

“Whoever this is,” Quinlan begins as he tosses the bag onto the fire pit, “is taking advantage of the humans who are enduring onslaught of the Master.” 

“That makes them an even bigger bastard than I first thought.” Over the scent of burning strigoi, tires, and garbage, the scent of burning flesh is almost indiscernible. Almost. “In scare-tactic news, telling a human they don’t taste nearly as good as they used to makes them look at you funny.”

“It’s the truth though,” Quinlan remarked. Thinly veiled humor aside, keeping our eyes open for more of these _gifts_ would be a priority from now on, along with any mortal who acted strangely – or more so than usual anyway.

Once away from the site and back on the hunt, the air seems stranger down here now and I find myself analyzing even sounds I know and expect. 

“Want to call it a night?” He asks me. Oh-so-close. He has a scent all his own. It is earthy and musky and coppery and moonshiney and sunny and heady and yummy and… I could go on and on.

“Yes. No. Yes. No. Hell yes.” I sigh. “I don’t know.” I finally admit.

He smiles at me, in a feral sort of way. I liken it to being sized up, the way he is looking at me now, like I’m prey or something. That gets all sorts of reactions from me – all of them good.

His hands are on my hips and then my back is shoved against the wall and everything is rapidly so much better in the world.

“Still unsure?” Deep voice vibrating against my jaw, right where jaw meets ear. It’s amazing how he has such a high body heat that I can feel through every article of clothing between us but yet he makes goose bumps rise on my skin and a shiver to run up and down my spine.

“Oh no. I’m far from unsure.” Instinct has me push against the hold he has on me. For other reason than to assert what I want.

He gets it. With a chuckle, accompanied by that purring sound I love so much, he uses his strength to pull me away from the wall and spin me around before shoving me face first back into it again.

Oh yes. Everything is so much better now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dilectus -- there are several different meanings, but the one I'm going for is: Latin (noun, adjv) - beloved


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm posting an update a bit late. I have to walk to where I can get online and I couldn't do that earlier this week.

I like waking up with Quinlan. He doesn’t sleep, per se, but we share dreams, and sometimes it’s like he is truly asleep with me. 

We always wake up wrapped around one another. In spite of the fact that his body temperature is naturally high, we counteract that by keeping the room as cool as possible, usually just short of icicles developing on the light fixtures. I love the cold. The colder the better and all the more reason to cozy up under thick blankets, naked, as close to each other as is possible for us to get.

This particular morning, I’m awakened to a feeling I know all too well: that of his stinger piercing my flesh. I don’t mind in the slightest. May seem strange, but I don’t mind waking up like this at all. I can feel the appendage moving around against my skin – sometimes it tickles – and I relish the sensation until he has taken what he needs and then the stinger withdraws. 

Well, doesn’t completely withdraw. It trails along my skin, exploring me like it has before. I asked him once just how sensitive it was, what it was capable of, and he showed me how so, and does it often.

I can understand why it would be disturbing to humans, but to me not at all. It does slobber on me, for a lack of a better term, and sometimes it scratches, and as I stated before tickles, but he has yet to do anything with it I haven’t enjoyed. Besides it is a part of him so in being so I find it attractive and fascinating. 

It keeps trailing down my chest and then stomach and I arch into the touch, hands gripping the pillow that my head rests on. He’s purring and that only heightens everything and I gasp and then moan as the stinger moves even lower and becomes more firm in its touching. 

It has become more precise, his stinger. The more he uses it in this fashion, the more it becomes like another hand in a way. I release the pillow with one hand and run it over the appendage, feeling the texture and serpent-like movement of the muscles under the slightly slippery skin. 

And then the stinger is gone, so suddenly, retracting, through my hand, caressing as it goes, before being replaced by lips and tongue and teeth and I make a noise I didn’t know I could make, and he chuckles against my skin before sliding up my body and taking my mouth in a passionate kiss.

As he does this, he is repositioning me, moving me until I’m flat on my back and then he nudges my legs apart and puts his full weight on top of me. 

He enters me and I wrap around him and we move together in sync. If I was mortal – human – then this would hurt me, especially without the proper care, but it doesn’t. Because I’m Lycan I have a higher pain threshold and certain things that would harm a mortal don’t even register as anywhere near ‘pain’ to me. That and the fact that Quinlan, as a dhampir, is … _different_. While I appear human in every aspect, in terms of anatomy, except when in my alternate form, Quinlan isn’t…exactly the same.

In some ways he is. In appearance – mostly. Typical, though longer than I am, and girthy, uncircumcised as I am also, (which is kind of surprising considering that slaves were usually circumcised) all except for the fact that there is no color. Like the rest of his skin, pale and crisscrossed with white veins and even a line of those entwined dark lines that run over his body. No flush of color in the head even when erect since his blood is white, not red. But other than that he’s as normal as any other male on the planet. 

I admit to a strange fascination with certain parts of his anatomy. Don’t get me wrong – I love all of him, but there are parts that I pay more attention to than others. His navel, though I can’t say why other than it is just so perfect and coupled with his amazing abs, is awesome to behold. Cockhead is a given. I shouldn’t have to give any explanation as to why. His shoulders, the area in-between his shoulder blades and the muscles from curve of shoulders to his neck and behind. To watch those muscles flew and move is glorious.

I am absolutely giddy with the fact that he has no problem walking around in our room naked. In fact, if it weren’t for our roommates, clothing would be optional every second of everyday, only to be put on when necessary. Neither one of us would have a problem with that.

I have to remember that the humans _are_ here and since they are on edge, making as little noise as possible will keep anything uncomfortable from happening. Though I think that considering what Quinlan and I are, the humans shouldn’t even think about running in to see if anything is wrong or being attacked, but mortals do panic so.

I don’t like having to tone it down and I know Quinlan doesn’t like me having to either. I have made my opinion known that he should just let me toss them out the window. They aren’t helpful to us. Needy, smelly, noisy things that they are. More hindrance than useful. Get tired, can’t see in the dark, could get turned, or sick. Really, such a bother it must be being mortal.

“Be still,” he tells me, a ghost of breath on my skin. As difficult as it is, I still, relaxing my body, drawing in deep breath after deep breath. He still also, hands snaking under my shoulders and taking my head between both his hands. I feel the need at his silent insistence to open my eyes and I am immediately looking deep into his. 

“Ti amo,” he whispers.

“Per sempre, amore mio,” I return. He smiles at me, but I see the uneasiness in his eyes.

But then he starts moving again, with remarkable accuracy, and soon I’m too busy seeing stars and trying to keep from howling loud enough to wake the humans to dwell on the worry. I know what it is he worries about and why.

Maybe if it is driven from my mind, it’s been driven from his also, at least for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, tell me the truth: is this fic okay? Or is it just silly and redundant? Sorry, but I read about 'the dark haired lady' and all this stuff about Quinlan and it makes me think my fic is stupid. I'm not fishing for compliments here. I just want to knwo if I should continue it or not. I have 30 chapters done, but I started thinking that my fic is not up to par and goes against canon too much.
> 
> Ti amo - I love you
> 
> Per sempre, amore mio - forever, my love.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I wrote this chapter a month ago. I warn everyone that as a Lycan, Inris isn't a big fan of humans. Though not as prejudiced as his kin, he still has a dislike of mortals. I am going to go back and see if I can make the chapters that I have already written longer and make certain things more graphic. That will become more apparent in later chapters also.

I’ve never lived with humans, so it’s easy for me to forget how invidious some of them can be. That being said, I wanted breakfast. So I get out of bed and go to make me some breakfast. Open door, stop, remember to put clothes on, go to closet, put clothes on, and then finally get to the damn kitchen. I can feel Quinlan’s amusement at my actions and even more so at the growling of my stomach. A starving Lycan is not a happy Lycan, just so you know. 

The two humans are there: The Professor and Mr. Fet. I nod to them both – one of those nods that one does where their head goes up and kinda stays there, instead of the typical way someone nods. It seems to say “yo” instead of “hi” or “hey.” Maybe it says “here I am and I’m watching you” or some shit like that. 

As I step into the kitchen, I hear Mr. Fet ask to the Professor: “What’s he gonna do?”

“Given that he just went into the kitchen, I’d day he’s gonna cook something.” The Professor, always grumpy and not afraid to show it.

“Cook? The werewolf is gonna cook?” I sigh while going through the pantry. I know the Professor has explained to him the differences between Lycans and werewolves, but the man insists on calling me “werewolf” or “puppy dog,” when he thinks I can’t hear him.

“ _Lycan_ , Mr. Fet, and yes, _cook_. Many of the greatest chefs in the world are Lycans.”

“No shit! Really?”

The Professor grunts a “yes.” “They have a nearly idyllic sense of taste and their olfactory sense is the keenest of any known creature. That and they know a damn fine cut of meat when they see one.”

I can’t help but smile and finding myself in a charitable mood, I make breakfast for everyone. 

It wasn’t too long after breakfast that two things happened.

The first was as I was cleaning up that I overheard Quinlan, Mr. Fet, and the Professor talk about the _Occido Lumen_. I knew what it was, even before coming here, I had heard of the Lumen. 

The second thing that happened that day was Dr. Ephraim Goodweather.

I heard him enter and knew from his footsteps that he wasn’t a human I was familiar with. He called out to Fet and then the Professor so he was an acquaintance of theirs I would wager. Quinlan heard him also, but by the time I set down what I was doing (homemade gumbo in a city under siege); I heard the gunshot and then a sound like something heavy hitting the ground.

Or being thrown to the ground and held there by a dhampir who doesn’t like getting shot at.

The man is struggling to breathe thanks to the death grip Quinlan had on his throat. I stand there watching, curious as to who this man is and what he’s doing there, but also thinking he deserves to be in his current predicament seeing as how he had decided to shoot-first-ask-questions-later. Besides, it’s kind of amusing watching him kick and try to claw Quinlan’s hand off his throat.

“How do you know the Professor?” Quinlan isn’t giving the man the option of answering.

Fet comes from down the hall and looks at me with quizzically. I merely motion and as he turns around the corner, he can see what is going on.

“Let him go! He’s a friend!” Quinlan waits a few moments more, even after Fet stands near him and the newcomer. Quinlan releases this man and stands back. “This is Ephraim Goodweather.” 

Ephraim Goodweather raises a shaking hand, and pointing at Quinlan asks: “What is this thing?” He is not endearing himself to me in the slightest with questions like that.

“It’s a long story, but a good story,” Fet answers, reaching down and offering the man his hand. Mr. Goodweather takes it and, keeping his eyes on Quinlan the whole time, gets to his feet.

Fet leads the man back down the hall and as they approach me, the newcomer, still rubbing his throat, looks at me and asks: “And what about him?”

“Another long story,” Fet says and the two of them continue around the corner, down the hall, and into the room where Abraham is.

“Really should watch discharging a firearm in an inhabited building. Someone could get hurt,” I muse as I open the double doors. Quinlan follows me from there and into the kitchen.

“Yes. Somebody could.” He watches in silence as I cut up vegetables and add them to the large pot on the stove. The Olympian Club is just that – a club, with a large kitchen and pantry to fit the needs of the members who had once come here. There are also suite rooms and a library and a lot of other immunities one would expect to find in such a place. 

Quinlan told me that he purchased the place a long time ago, but had never had a use for it until now, so he had let it remain the prestigious club and go about its regular business. It was growing on me, decorations, and all.

The kitchen isn’t the prettiest one I’ve ever seen, nor is it as update as it should be, but it does the job. Granted, I’ve had to repair a few things here and there – leaky faucet, grease caked in the overhead fan, and the sink didn’t like to drain unless plunged – but it’s growing on me also.

He moves behind me and snakes his arms around my waist, and begins to nuzzle the back of my neck, a soft purr vibrating against my back. I close my eyes, leaning back into him, and not paying attention to what I’m doing, damn near cut my finger off.

“Shit!” More out of anger than pain. Way to ruin the moment.

“It’ll grow back,” Quinlan jokes, though it is true if I had cut my finger all the way off. He turns me around, and I know the look and feel the feeling, so I hold up the bleeding finger and watch in fascination as his stinger does a damn good job of cleaning the blood off. It really shouldn’t be that much of a turn-on should it?

“Do me another favor?” I ask as my mouth follows the appendage and my lips are on his before it is fully returned to its hiding place, if you will. 

“Anything. You have but to ask.” Though he knows damn well what it is I want, but since he likes hearing it…

“Have your way with me on the butcher’s block.” I motion to the large table behind us.

“It’s covered in the juice and pieces of various vegetables,” he points out after having glanced over his shoulder at it.

“Yes, I haven’t cleaned it yet, but I really don’t give a damn.”

The kitchen door swings open and Fet pokes his head in. Man doesn’t even blink. Just pretends as if everything is normal here. “Professor wants to see you.” Then he is gone.

Quinlan reluctantly releases me. “Later, beloved,” he promises, kissing me tenderly once, twice, before leaving the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again!! Especially all the comments that I got after my moment last week when I was doubting myself and my writing ability. It won't happen again and I feel silly and embarrassed that it happened in the first place. So, thank you KMM, Slypride11, EM, and YYflower for the boost.
> 
> Also, just as a side note, I love Kevin Durand and his character Fet, but I have to take into consideration his attitude toward Quinlan and how Inris is going to feel about that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i reuploaded chapter 14 because I found some mistakes last night that I know I had fixed, but I didn't save, so tense and spelling errors, at least the ones I found, are fixed on previous chapter.

I have three children so I can understand why Dr. Goodweather – Eph – is mulling over giving his wife – not wife – the Lumen in exchange for the safe return of his son. 

I know that Quinlan is in desperate need to rid this world of the Master and thus wants to lure him out with the book. Two birds with one stone, so-to-speak. There is another reason as well. 

It is amazing how just a short while ago Eph shot at Quinlan, thinking he a sentient strigoi and Quinlan promptly had his down on the floor, choking him. Then the conversation in the bar where Eph, being a bastard, speaking to my mate as he had, trying to hide his real intentions, but both Quinlan and I knew better. And now, here they were, conspiring to steal the Lumen from the Professor and use it to bait the Master and get Eph’s son back, and return the book safely back into the safe. Of course, with the Master dead, the book isn’t that important anymore.

Simple, right? So why do I not feel good about this?

Hence I’m not surprised when he leaves me behind to go with Dr. Goodweather to set their plan in motion. He masks himself well from me and while I hate it, I know why he feels the need to protect me. So far, the Master has left me alone. My help would be a good thing for him in defeating his father, yet he insists on protecting me. We’ve had this conversation before, so why does he refuse to realize that losing him would tear the heart right out of me? He doesn’t want to lose me, but I don’t want to lose him either. Why is one loss more acceptable than the other? Does he truly believe it is better for me to lose him then for him to lose me? Both would hurt the other. Cripple, torment, either of us would suffer the same if we lost the other. How can he make this decision for the both of us?

But he does and as angry and upset as it makes me – if he survives this I am going to make damn sure he knows how hurt and angry I am – I am still more worried than anything. What if I could help? What if I lose him?

It is frustrating. I can feel him, but not well enough to find where he is. I leave the Olympian anyway. Even without a destination in mind, one with surety, I don’t want to be here and hear the Professor and Fet lament over the theft and treachery. 

There is one thing that he can’t do anything about to keep me from tracking him and that is his scent. I’d know his scent anywhere and I can follow it through this city, mixed in among a million others, without any difficulty at all. The only problem with that is that I have to follow the scent and I hope I catch up with him at some point. 

As I move through the city, I think about my children. They aren’t my blood children. I had nothing to do with their conception or birthing. These children are the victims of old Lycan’ beliefs for as resilient we are, in the womb and the first two years, Lycan children are highly susceptible to disease and any other harmful factors. If a child is born with an imperfection, they won’t be tolerated in the clan. So, they are taken out and left in the middle of nowhere to let nature take its course. Whether it be by starvation, exposure, or wild animal these children are forgotten and left to die.

I’ve managed to find and rescue three of these children and I had a crash course in taking care of babies and all that goes with it. Changing diapers was the most difficult of all. Keen sense of smell and, well, you can guess the rest. But I managed and now these three children are as if they are my own.

I find myself at a place I don’t recognize, one set with a thick metal door, but judging by the scent I get from the door Mr. Fet, the Professor, Dr. Goodweather, two women I don’t know and a child I can only assume is Eph’s son were all here and at various times for a varying lengths of time. I also detect various chemicals and food stuffs. Quinlan and Eph have been here recently, but they aren’t now. It hasn’t been that long though so I set off again.

Sabine is seven and she was born with a curved spine so she has a severe limp and suffers with a lot of pain. She has special crutches that help her walk. Her sister, Helene, just over five years old, was born deaf. I had to learn sign language quickly and taught myself with books from the library, I taught Sabine, and when Helene was old enough, I taught her. 

Bastian will be a year old in a little over a month. As far as I can tell, there isn’t anything wrong with him. He has ten fingers and ten toes and can see and hear. He is doing everything that a baby should be doing, (there aren’t any books on raising a Lycan baby, so I can only go by the human baby books I could find), but yet he was cast out. I can only assume that the reason was his father wasn’t the man married to his mother. Adultery is a serious offence among the clans, if committed by a woman. A man can do whatever – or _whoever_ \- they chose without repercussion. 

Three happy and beautiful children, all from different clans, left to die like they were nothing. My faith in Lycans wasn’t very strong to begin with and it’s getting weaker every day.

When each was just babes, I would sit up all night and watch them sleep, watching their tiny chests rise and fall, making sure everything was normal. No strange pattern or any sign of illness. Like I said, Lycan children are susceptible to colds, the flu, whooping cough, all the things human babies are. The slightest noise outside made my hackles rise in defense. They aren’t my blood kin, but I would defend them with my life.

I would hold them and be completely mesmerized by that ‘new smell’. Unsullied and untainted, innocent and pure, in spite of what my people think. How anyone could cast something so precious out and leave them to starve, unknowing what was happening to them, or to succumb to predators. It’s horrible to think about, to imagine those moments, and I curse the clans for their archaic practices.

I miss them terribly. My children. Not my clan. I want to just gather them in my arms and hold them tight. I know they miss me also. They are within the borders of the clans, close enough to fall under the protection of the Lycans, but far enough away that the clans won’t be alerted to them. If found out, the clans would finish what I kept from happening by rescuing them. They would also punish the gypsies that were keeping my children safe and sound while I’m here.

Another building, this time it is a nearly empty store. There is a dead Strigoi near the front, its neck broken. So, they contacted the Master through one of his puppets, baited him with the Lumen, and were now going to carry out their plan.

Damn it, Quinlan! Why won’t you let me help you?

They split up not too long after this. Dr. Goodweather in the taxi he acquired and Quinlan on foot, both going in different directions. I stand on the street, letting my senses stretch out, feeling, and hearing this city and I suddenly despise it. It’s guts are writhing with strigoi, like maggots swarming over and through a carcass, feeding on it. This city is dying. It just doesn’t know it. 

My instinct is to follow my mate, hopefully catch up with him before it’s too late, but I know that I will have a better chance of catching Dr. Goodweather. Even if he’s in a vehicle, I can most assuredly catch up with him much easier than I can Quinlan and I’m also sure I can persuade the good doctor to tell me what I want to know. Though their paths have diverged, their goal is still the same. Eph will lead me to the Master, which in turn leads me to Quinlan.

I can block my thoughts from him also and I have been. He doesn’t need to know I’m coming.

With Lycan speed, I take off after Dr. Goodweather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone reading. 
> 
> I have a tendency sometimes to take what is told to me and make it so, but thanks to Slyrpide11 for reminding me that this is fanfiction and though I post this fic here, I am basically writing it for myself. I'm just hoping that others are enjoying reading it as much as I am writing it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going back and adding, trying to make chapters longer. This one is a little bit longer than I'd originally written.

Several minutes and even more blocks later, I find him. I cut through an alley and come out in front of his car, right in front of the cab. He looks up and sees me, all wide-eyed when he realizes who it is standing in the street in front of his moving vehicle, and slams on the brakes.

“Shit!” He exclaims, throwing the cab in park and opening the door. “What the hell? Are you crazy?” He gets out of the car, just about to come around, but sees the look on my face and decides to stay behind the door, what little protection it’ll provide if I decide to physically confront him, I don’t know, but human nature and all. He may not know it but in human form I can rip the door off its hinges. Pissed off in human form, wolf leaking in I could flip the car and watch it barrel roll several times. In full alternate form, I could pick up that cab and toss it, send it flying through the air for at least a block and a half.

“Yes, I am,” I snap. “And pissed off! Where is he, doctor?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, and then repeats the process several times. I’m reminded of a fish out of water.

“I know you stole the book and what you plan to do with it,” I inform him as I come around the driver’s side of the cab. “You are going to go trade it for your son. I understand why the two of you split up. He’ll want the element of surprise. He’ll make his way there, come in from behind to surprise the Master. I want to be there. I _have_ to be there.”

“He’s trying to protect you.” I doubt in the midst of their scheming they talked about me – Quinlan wouldn’t talk about anything other than what was necessary and our relationship certainly didn’t fall into that category - but it was obvious the doctor was more astute then most humans.

“Where is the exchange taking place?” More of a demand then a simple question. I put just enough force; let the wolf surface a sufficient amount to get the point across, that I’m not fucking around here. Glowing eyes, elongated teeth, and the growly voice – it does the trick and he tells me everything. 

I leave him standing there and go on my way. I’m getting more and more antsy as I walk. My skin is tingling. Something is going to happen. I can feel it and the concern I feel for my lover is heightening to the point to where the wolf is straining to come out and is being damn aggressive about it.

I just might let him have his way.

I talk about the wolf like it’s a separate person, but it’s just another state of being, but sometimes it seems as if he has a separate mind and will all his own.

I’ll fight tooth and nail to protect the ones I love, and the ones I love are three children in Budapest and the one and only dhampir left in this world. If I have to let the wolf out, I will without hesitation, physical pain be damned.

Lycans can swim, very well in fact, so I beat Eph to the meeting place – a fishing spot he used to bring his son – and sat back to wait. It was a while yet before sundown so the Master, Eph’s wife, and son wouldn’t show up until then.

I sensed a presence moments before sundown. Not Quinlan. Something dark and sinister. It smells of old blood and new. I reeked of death and decay. 

The Master was near and he wasn’t alone.

In spite of my heightened senses, they still nearly sneaked up on me. At the last minute I detected their presence and instinctively threw myself forward and rolled to my feet facing away from where Eph was waiting. There were seven of them (the Master’s attempt at hilarity, I’m sure, but that is an explanation for another time), not Lycans, but werewolves, trained and ready for battle.

How long had he had them and where had he been hiding them. These creatures were a throwback to the days of my grandfather when the Master and his brothers trained werewolves to hunt Lycans. They can’t kill us but their bite is painful and poisonous to us, enough to incapacitate me until the Mater can finish the job. Smart bastard, but I’m not surprised. If anyone on this planet knows how to kill my kind, it’s the Ancients. They’ve had much practice.

My first instinct is to shift forms, but that is not a short process and they would be on me long before the transformation is complete. In human form as I am now, they are a danger to me. They can do a considerable amount of damage to my person. They wouldn’t have a chance in hell if I was in my alternate form. But in between is not where I want to be caught by them, when I’m vulnerable and can’t defend myself. I wish now that I had gone ahead and transformed once I had reached the island. In alt form, I would’ve been something the Master would think twice about fighting, and these poor creatures before me would’ve been much less of a threat.

They look like normal wolves except they are twice the size and their eyes glow infernal red in the coming darkness. Unlike me, however, silver is highly lethal to them. Good thing I have two guns loaded with .45 silver bullets and six extra clips to boot.

But it doesn’t even come to that. 

Here I am reaching for my guns and a flurry of movement, a glimmer of fading light on steel, and seven werewolves are falling over, their heads rolling free from their bodies. It all happens in seconds and I am cemented to the spot as Quinlan kneels down and wipes his blade clean on the pelt of one of the werewolves.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says to me without looking at me, his tone is harsh and scolding. “I left you behind for a reason.” For him, he is damn near yelling.

“You really expected me to sit by and do nothing? Am I to just except the fact that you might not come home again and just go on about my life? Are you fucking mad?”

So fast I barely register he is upon me. Sword still in hand, he grips the back of my neck hard with his free hand and shakes me none-too gently.

“If you lose me, you will go on. You have your children. They give you a reason to live. If I lose you, I’ll… Don’t you see, Inris, you are all I have in this world. Without you, I couldn’t –” He sighs and pulls me to him so our foreheads are touching. “I love you. I’ve faced this world alone for the better part of two millennia. I don’t want to do it for a moment more. Not now. Not after having just found you.”

Damn him!

I’m just about to answer him, and say what I really don’t know, when all hell breaks loose behind us.

The Master has arrived.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to tell you that any and all mistakes are mine. I try to catch them all, but I usually don't.
> 
> I don't think I posted a chapter last week. I don't think I did. I was sick most of last week, for the first time in my life and the first time in my mom's 66 years, we didn't have Thanksgiving dinner. That sucks!! Anyway, I'm posting 2 for my not posting last week.

The Master along with a puppet or two. Eph’s wife, Kelly I believe her name was…is…whatever. A child-sized individual with their head covered by a sack, and judging by the odor unless he was turned, it wasn’t the doctor’s son which proved true only moments later. Kelly grabbed the book and brought it to the Master, at which time several American military turned strigoi crashed the party along with the Professor and Mr. Fet.

Gunfire as Quinlan takes out the strigoi standing next to the Master. More gunfire as the military strigoi begins firing at Quinlan. Our bond is strong and thus I can feel the bullets piercing his flesh. It makes the wolf rage to be freed. I resist. In this it could cause more harm than good. 

There are more strigoi here, coming out of the shadows, a few more werewolves also. I rage against them. How dare they try to keep me from him.

One of the silver grenades is tossed and explodes near the Master. His pain is evident and he drops the Lumen to the ground. 

I hear Abraham call out to Quinlan just before a second grenade explodes.

It happens in slow motion: Quinlan getting to his feet, staggering, sword in hand as the Master writhes in pain on the ground, the downward arc of the sword, all of Quinlan’s anger and hatred being released in that single motion, the Master’s head rolling away from his body, Quinlan collapsing.

I rush to him, my guns empty and still smoking. I drop to my knees next to him, turn him over. His eyes are closed, but he is alive. He’s alive! The Master is dead and Quinlan isn’t.

I cradle him to me, guns forgotten on the ground next to us. I bury my face against his ear, and the silver caught in his coat stings me but I don’t care.

Dr. Goodweather, Mr. Fet, and the Professor are near. I can sense them even if I don’t bother with looking up at either of them.

“Is he alive?” The Professor.

I nod, hearing the barely audible purr that Quinlan makes. With as little movement as possible, I take the sword he still clutches in his hand and return it to its sheath and then I replace my guns one at a time in their holsters, mindful of being careful with the body I still clutch to me, and then I lift him up and carry him away. 

I don’t care if the humans follow. I don’t care about anything they do or say. They can jump in the damned river for all I care. I suddenly feel this deep hatred for all of them for varying and numerous reasons. They are fortunate I didn’t transform tonight or I probably would’ve torn all of them apart.

I walk all the way back to the Olympian Club, holding him tightly, and surprisingly nothing tries to deter me in my trek. I sense a great many strigoi but with their master fallen, they are as confused and unguided as babes.

I know I have to remove the bullets before he begins to heal around them – removing them after healing around them is even more painful to remove than getting shot in the first place – so once we arrive at the Olympian, I carry him to the kitchen. Why? I don’t know. I guess because I consider it mine since no one else here can cook worth a damn and I still don’t care what they think about anything, including setting Quinlan down on the center island butcher block I do nearly all my food prep on.

Ha! So there, sheep!

To say I am in a pissy mood is an understatement, but I know how much as I detest and loath humans right now, some of my anger is directed at the man lying before me, unconscious. He’s alive, I keep telling myself, and how glad I am at that fact is immeasurable, but I’m also exasperated and irritated at him anyway.

“So, when does that whole ‘old enough to know better’ supposed to kick in?” I rolled my eyes and then shook my head. “Oh, that’s right: you wouldn’t know.”

He is injured, though, so I set about taking care of that. Plastic on the butchers block just to make the humans feel better. I removed his weapons and set them nearby and then his clothes. I need to make sure there aren’t any wounds I’m not aware of or confusing with my own. Those military strigoi got me a few times in the legs and once in the abdomen. I can feel the bullets, both whole and fragmented, inside me, but my chief concern is for him. Besides, as I stated before, it hurts like hell but I’m no novice at digging bullets out of my own body.

Dr. Goodweather comes in (why does this man always smell like alcohol?) and he stands off to the side, quietly. I can smell the fear on him and he is angry himself since he obviously didn’t get his son back as he had planned.

“Huh,” he began, “he has one. I didn’t think –” He trailed off when I turned to glare at him. “Sorry. I really am. I was just going by other strigoi and – I didn’t know! It’s not something that comes up in a conversation, you know! ‘Hey! How’s the weather? Did you see the game last night? Do you have a dick?’”

I refrained from laughing, because that would be an interesting conversation turn, but instead I fix him with a look that only belays annoyance. “But you talked about other things, like stealing the Lumen and going after the Master.”

“Hey! You talk to your boyfriend about that, alright! I was thinking that it wasn’t right to risk all of humanity for my son, no matter how painful that line of thinking was, and _he_ persisted on luring the Master out and that trading the book for Zack was a good way to do it! You take it up with him!”

I know he was right. Quinlan’s sole purpose is to defeat the Master, and I also know how persuasive he can be. He’s had many centuries of studying people and their reactions and is a master at deducing how to manipulate them. I suppose the doctor was easy compared to others since his motivation was his son and getting him back. 

He pulled up a chair opposite me and sat down. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m a doctor. I’m going to get these bullets out.” He looked me over. “You got shot too, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but –”

“Lycan blood bad. Yes, I know. I’ll be careful.” 

The one in my abdomen went through and through and was already healing up. The bullets in my leg, three altogether, hit bones and fractured into pieces. Lycan bones are like steel, but the bullets fragments still hurt like a bitch, both going in and coming out.

“There,” Eph said, taking off the disposable gloves he wore. He had managed to get three on each hand. “His healing rate is incredible but yours is even faster.” Several times I’d had to reopen a wound so he could finish getting the shrapnel out. “You should go wash all that blood off. I’ll take care of him.” He nodded toward Quinlan who had yet to stir. Still laying on the butcher’s clock. I had found towels to put under his head and another to cover up his groin area. I certainly didn’t mind looking at it, but I didn’t want anyone else to, especially someone who would ask questions that I didn’t want to answer.

So I left him in the doctor’s hands and went to clean up and change.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late. All mistakes are mine. I own nothing more, except Inris. The Lycan is mine!

By the time I finish taking a long hot shower and finding clothes that fit my mood (yes, I mean that), Quinlan is sitting up and talking to the Professor. They are making plans to go speak with the Ancients. I’m going with them, to hell with what the Ancients will think about that.

The old man, not a fool by a long shot, takes his tea and departs the kitchen as soon as I walk in, nodding to me once, before disappearing through the door.

Quinlan is sitting there, naked, with only a folded sheet half covering him, looking at me with no emotion on his face, but I can see the turmoil in his eyes and feel it just as sure as if it were my own. His deep set eyes are surrounded by dark circles and the mark at his throat is a fierce red. He’s been weakened by what happened with the Master last night. He needs blood to revitalize his strained system.

“You are still angry with me,” he states, nodding slightly. “I was being overly protective, and I know that given what we each are and what we do, that is more insult than welcome. You have taken care of yourself for the centuries away from your clan and even though the Master is - _was_ \- more formidable than beings you have previously faced, I should have had more faith in your ability and resoluteness and for that I am sorry, my heart.”

I’ve already forgiven him long before I stepped through the door. I knew the exact moment he regained consciousness, but I’d stalled for many reasons, the foremost being I didn’t want to be angry when I returned to him.

He was sincere. There was no deception or telling me what I wanted to hear just because I wanted to hear it.

I go over and stood between his legs, opening my shirt collar more, and offering my blood to him. He draws in a deep sigh, the gratefulness evident on his features, and his stinger slowly unfurls, attaching to me in almost a lazy fashion.

“The Master isn’t dead, is he?” I ask when he has retracted his stinger, having had his fill. Or all that he will take now. I know he could drink more, but I don’t call him on it.

“I am not for certain. The Professor and I are going to consult with the Ancients to make sure.” 

“I’m going with you,” I informed him. I left no room for argument.

“Of course you are,” he said, smiling slightly at me. His mood was…not what I expected. All things considered, I thought he’d be edgy, anxious, angry, but instead he was… _lecherous_. “I remember a conversation from a few days ago, in this very room, and you saying something about –”

“You spreading me out on this table and having your way with me.” His hands were stroking and squeezing places that were not proper in a kitchen, but neither one of us really seemed to care at all.

“I was thinking of something a little different.”

Okay. I can get behind different. Hell, I’ll try anything once and if I like it then definitely more than once.

“Different how?” I press myself into him harder, though I meet the resistance of the side edge of the table.

“A…reversal, so-to-speak,” he answers, his voice practically a purr.

A reversal? Oh!

I have to admit to a moment of hesitation. I see him as the alpha male here, even though he isn’t a Lycan, but he is older, wiser, and much more battletested. One does not ask or expect the alpha male to bend over or spread his legs. It just isn’t done!

 

“You need to let go of that,” he tells me as his thighs tighten against my hips. “Besides it isn’t as if I haven’t done it before.” I raise a quizzical eyebrow at him. “Many wanted to brag to the masses about being fucked by the champion.” Okay, so he didn’t use language like that often. It wasn’t that he was above it; he just didn’t see the need to. However, when he did, it was kinda hot. “A few elite chosen go to brag about fucking the champion. Granted, they were all human thus I felt hardly anything, mostly nothing at all. I just went through the motions to avoid any sort of repercussions.”

I’ve never liked the fact that while he was celebrated as a champion in Rome, they whored him out to the highest bidder. I also didn’t like the fact that he had been with anyone who wasn’t me, but I can’t help that, and neither could he, so I have to let that go also. 

I slide my hands around behind his knees, just above the bend and pull him forward. The plastic he is sitting on makes a crinkling noise. That rumbling purr in his chest and a chuckle follow suit. 

“The plastic feels kinda weird under your ass, doesn’t it?”

“A little.” He pulls himself forward just a tad more, bracing himself against me, the heels of his feet digging into the same spot just above my knee that my hands are clutching on him. 

He kisses me, hard and passionate and needy all the while his hands are busy with first pulling the towel that covers him free and tossing it over his shoulder and then unbuttoning my pants. A hand snakes in and wraps around my almost completely hard cock, I growl into his mouth and if he were mortal I would’ve broken something by now as hard as I’m holding onto him.

“Do it,” he breaths against my lips when we pull apart to catch our breath. “I want to feel it. Make me feel it.”

I surge forward, lifting him up and back by the grip I have on his legs, and he moves with me, anticipating, falling back on his elbows as I climb onto the butcher’s block. My hands slide up over his legs, abdomen, stomach, chest and then slip under his shoulders and rest there, my mouth finding his, his legs resting on my thighs, and I really should have taken my damned pants off before doing this, but heat of the moment and all.

I have to reverse it, remove the unwanted articles (the shoes are the most uncooperative), and then climb back up. He chuckles the entire time, telling me to take my time – he isn’t going anywhere.

Though I have been around for over six centuries, I being what I am, couldn’t just go around and have sex with whoever I pleased, for reasons I’ve explained previously. My first experiences were with him and would only be with him. So this was my first time doing it this way. 

But it was easy and so amazing and I knew without a doubt that he was not only feeling it, but enjoying it as much, if not even more than I was. Being with him - _inside_ him felt as if we were coming full circle. Both of us to each other equally, sharing ourselves fully and completely with each other. I had no idea how hot and tight and mind-blowing. 

I feel secure in the knowledge that I’m the only person in his entire history that made him feel this way. In fact, I’m damn proud of it.

In the spirit of having to share a place to stay with humans, the loudest sound we make is the noise from the butcher’s block, which surprises me when it doesn’t collapse into a heap of broken pieces. It holds up and as much as I want to collapse, to bask in the afterglow, I manage to find my feet and then my clothing. I wobble over, knees a little shaky, and bring him his clothes.

He kisses me – tenderly but still full of passion and love. “Thank you.” And I know it isn’t just for bringing him his clothes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long to update. I have chapters done already and have had them done since October but I have been in video game mode (SKYRIM) and I haven't been paying attention. I'm trying to stretch this out until the new season starts. 
> 
> Anyway, HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

The Ancients are deep underground which isn’t surprising. As we make our way to where their lair is, I lengthen the usual distance to which I follow Quinlan from one step to a dozen. Just a precaution, keeping an eye on our backs is never a bad thing.

“Does he always do that?” The Professor asks Quinlan as he glances back at me. “Do you always walk behind him like that?”

“I do it out of respect,” I state, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jacket, strolling along as if we are not underground and not in a city laid siege by strigoi. “Mostly.”

Quinlan makes an amused scoffing sound. The Professor’s brow furrows as his eyes shift from to Quinlan and then back again but he says nothing else. I come close to telling him to be careful – a man his age really needs to watch where he is going. It wouldn’t do for him to fall down and break a hip or something.

When we get near the chamber, we are greeted by a sun-hunter who I know from Quinlan is called Lar.

“How dare you bring him here?” He isn’t talking about the human, that’s for sure. The venom in his eyes as he looks at me says that old grudges don’t just die. They fester. Hell, I wasn’t there all those centuries ago especially when the Old World Ancients kept my people as slaves. If they have a beef, I dare them to take it up with my grandfather. He _was_ there and he is still damned pissed about it. The one called Lar sneers at me before shifting his attention to Quinlan. “Keep your lapdog muzzled.”

Instead of telling the idiot that I am way too big to be a lapdog (though not for lack of trying), I hold my tongue. 

“The Master is slain,” Quinlan stated evenly. Not boastful. “I’ve cut off his head. After centuries of pursuit, he is fallen.”

“We felt it,” Lar stated for the Ancients. They sat on their strange thrones, all pitiful and vulgar, acting senile and oblivious. “He was weakened. His guard was down. Briefly.”

“Briefly? What do you mean?” This wasn’t what Quinlan wanted to hear.

“He is formless. That much we understand.”

“What does that mean?” Though we came here to find out if the Master was truly dead, the hope was that it was true. That hope was all but dust now.

“He has not yet taken another body.”

“But he will?” Professor Setrakian. The Ancients are about as happy with him speaking to them as they are about me being here. “Is that what’s happening.”

“With you we will share nothing,” Lar says with thinly veiled contempt. “We want our book.”

“Yes,” Abraham began, “Lots of stealing of books going around.” He takes a few steps forward, showing that he isn’t afraid of them. His words, a thinly veiled barb, make Quinlan a little uneasy. Come on, old man, you stole the book first or have you forgotten that? “I saw something. A red worm.” Now Quinlan shifts his focus fully onto Abraham. This is evidently the first time he has heard mentioned of this. “Crimson. Not like the others.”

Lar glances back at the Ancients before answering. “If you did not kill the crimson worm then you did not slay the Master.” 

“What _worm_ …is this?” I can sense the emotions running rampant: anger, betrayal, disappointment. Quinlan is not taking this new information well at all.

“The essence of his being.” The cocky bastard. “He has not yet taken another host, but when he does –” creepy eye-blink that full-white-blooded strigoi can do – “he will be just as powerful as before.”

“A crimson… _worm_ ” Lar apparently picks up on the tone of Quinlan’s voice and the way he is acting because the cocky grin disappears and I see his hand slowly reaching down to his weapon. I step forward then, farther into the light, closer to Quinlan, ready to act. “You might have told me.” He steps around Lar, the knowledge of this new deceit bewildering in a way. “You might have… You might have tried to help me.” He steps up to the closest of the Ancients and in the blink of an eye, draws his sword. Lar pulls his gun free as the other sun-hunters raise their weapons, all pointing at the one person in this world – besides my children – that I will die for. My hands are reaching for my guns, but the wolf is stirring once again. “Why don’t I cut off your useless heads and expose the essence of your being!” Even Setrakian is ready to pull his blade free from its hiding place in his ornate cane. 

Quinlan glances at the sun-hunters and their weapons. Since he is still weakened from the night before, having not taken enough blood from me, he is slightly vulnerable. They could do a lot of damage before I could get to him, especially since I don’t know what kind of ammo they have loaded and while I could kill them all, the transformation would take too long to keep Quinlan, and the Professor, safe from harm.

I don’t miss the smug look on the Ancient’s faces. I wish I had time to transform. My Lycan claws would rip that look, and their faces, clean off and I would take great satisfaction in doing it.

Quinlan lowers his sword, glancing to his right. “I risk everything and you three _husks_ -” he swings his gaze around to his left – “just sit here awaiting the end of your days.” He turns his gaze back to the one he stands in front of and throws his arms out wide. “Take a good, long look at me. You will never see me again.” And with that he turns and leaves. The Professor follows immediately. I hang back just a little bit longer, letting them feel my presence, letting them remember what I am and that I know where they hide.

“He reeks of you,” Lar snarls at me as I turn to go.

I throw a wide smile over my shoulder. “Damn right he does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about the thing in the tunnels, leaving body parts all over. It shows up later. Sorry. It just seems I've forgotten it but it's there.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! I hope you like it. I went back and read it and posted it anyway but it seems kinda silly and stupid to me. Sorry about that.

I have a truck. Not like that Army truck that Fet drives around in. It’s a Chevy Silverado 4-door with all the extras including a sunroof and a reinforced front end so I can run over nearly anything I want. I did the work myself. 

I don’t take it out of the safe place I keep it very often, but I thought it would be rude to make the old man walk, which strikes me as funny considering how much older both Quinlan and I are than him and we call him ‘old man’.

We are riding along in silence, Quinlan lost in his thoughts beside me, looking out the window but not seeing anything out there. Abraham is in the back seat and I can see him in the rearview mirror. He wants to say something, but he is keeping it to himself.

Or was.

“I guess it shouldn’t be such a surprise,” he begins, looking out the window on his right and then the one on the right. “Mr. Quinlan being the one and only of his kind in the world and you, Mr. Blackwood, being such a rarity among Lycans that you might as well be the only one of your kind also.” A rarity I am because not many get kicked out of their clan, disowned, and all that.

“Mr. Blackwood is…nobody. Certainly not me. Inris is just fine. And what isn’t so surprising?” 

“That you two not only managed to end up in the same city - _find_ each other if you will - but you are bonded.” He meets my eyes in the rearview member. “There’ll be no going back to you clan now. I imagine they would take it a hell of a lot worse than the Ancients did.” Astute old bastard.

“I wasn’t ever planning on going back anyway.” And I mean it.

“Have the two of you thought about making it official?”

I almost slam on the brakes at that. Not that it is a foolish or an unwelcome idea: in fact we _have_ talked about it but later, when all this is over, so now is not the time.

Quinlan faces forward again and there is a smile on his face, if only a slight one. “Where would we go to make it official? Who would we get to perform the ceremony?”

“Or register? I could use a new toaster oven.”

The Professor sighs in aggravation, shaking his head. “The Olympian Club would do nicely. I could perform the ceremony, and you have a good toaster oven already.”

This isn’t what it sounds like. ‘Making it official’, as the Professor put it, is not a ceremony with flowers and rings and ‘I do’s’. It’s a declaration. Lycans don’t have wedding ceremonies. They just stand up in front of their clan and say ‘We love each other. We pledge to ourselves too each other.’ In other words, it is just them saying ‘Hands off! He or She is Mine!’ That sort of thing. 

Also it gives the ones witnessing the declaration the knowledge of who gets what. So if anything happens to Quinlan, I get a bone-handled sword and whatever else he has accumulated over the centuries. He get my guns, my truck, and – oh yeah – three children.

It would mean more if I - _we_ \- were part of a clan.

Then I start thinking. Maybe Quinlan and I are part of a clan. A small one. One infested with humans. Ha!

I drop Quinlan and Abraham off at the Olympian Club and then drive my truck back to its hiding place. Once there and everything locked up, I make my way on foot back the eleven blocks. It’s still daylight so I don’t have to worry about any strigoi. 

It amazes me, the depths of this love I have for him and the strength with which is returned. I’ve only been away from him for ten minutes or so and yet I feel as if it has been an eternity and that I must return to him immediately or else I will cease to exist.

Since we now know that the Master is not dead then that means that Quinlan could still die when he does end the Master’s existence. If I don’t like being away from him for a few moments, how am I to survive if it is something other than a few blocks that distances us – something permanent like death.

So lost in my thoughts am I that I almost miss it – the very distinctive scent of fresh blood. 

I pause mid-stride and sniff the air. The scent is coming from the alley ahead. I follow it, reaching back to unsnap the braces on my guns just to save myself some seconds when something jumps out and attacks me once I find where the scent of the blood is coming from. Be prepared. For anything. I learned that a long time ago and I was never a boy scout.

A follow the alley and it leads across another and to an open door to a dilapidated warehouse. Not something one is used to seeing in Manhattan, but it is very well hidden by the nicer buildings. The door stands ajar and the scent of blood is wafting strongly from inside. I’m no fool, but unless there is something in there with enough strength to decapitate me, then I really don’t have anything to fear. 

I draw my guns just to be on the safe side and slide through the opening without disturbing the door. I step over to the side, in the shadows, out of the light of the door, and let my sight slip into night vision.

I can see in the dark like human would while wearing infrared goggles. I can see heat patterns, even on the floor after someone has walked across it. I see no heat signatures of any kind, and when my eyesight is sharpened like this, so is my all ready extraordinary hearing. 

Nothing and no one. Not alive anyway. I’m alone. Just me, the coppery smell of blood, and whatever the hell is bleeding.

Sighing deeply, gun in hand, I venture further into the warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See. What did I tell you? Silly. LOL!!! oh well, I know the other chapters are better even though I haven't reread them in a few months, but I'm sure they are. Sorry again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about delay in updating. Been lazy and working on other things and playing video games and sad because I had to sell my baby ( my baby was a truck. A beautiful, wonderful Baja blue Chevy S-10 extended cab whose motor gave out after 22 years). The guy who bought her just wanted her for her body, but at least she is in good hands. I know, silly crying over a truck but I have had her since three days after she came off the assembly line in July of 1994.
> 
> Sorry again. Anyway, posting new chapter. Enjoy.

I’ll let you in on a little secret. Back in the 70s I lived in Amsterdam. Nice place if you are into that kind of thing. I liked to eat so I worked in a bar serving drinks. Guys and girls of all ages like it when a nice looking guy brings their drinks, especially one just shy of being naked. It was living.

Thing was, one night this guy comes up to me – the sleazy type of guy – and told me that with looks like mine and the body I had, I could be making a hell of a lot of money. My first thought was prostitution and that was definitely not going to happen because of the whole exchange-of-bodily-fluids-die-horrible-death-thing and that wasn’t the way to keep up a great client base. Turns out, it wasn’t being a prostitute.

I did things for people, yes, people who paid a lot of money for me to do them, but I did all these things behind 2-inches of shatter-proof glass. Or, at least, the guy had said it was shatter-proof glass. Hell, the whole place looked like it was about to fall apart, so he was lying, but when a guy pays me five-hundred dollars to eat ice cream (the flavor didn’t matter just as long as I was naked while doing it) then what do I care.

You might be surprised to know the freaky, strange, and perverted things people will pay someone to do, just so they can watch and get their rocks off (have you noticed how my speech has changed?) and I did them all. Not just for the money, but because I have very few inhibitions. Lycans are just that way. 

I got bored with that after a few years and then I spent a few months as a stripper. Yep. I was so good I had my own pole that no one else could use. Then I went to London and was a librarian for five years. 

Why am I telling you about this? I don’t know. It has nothing to do with my current situation. Quinlan thought it was interesting and amusing though. He was also very curious about the things (the freaky, strange, and perverted) people paid me to do. So far, he there’s not any one of them he hasn’t liked.

Back to what’s at hand here: strong smell of blood in a warehouse devoid of life. Because if anything has lost the amount of blood I smell, there is no way they’re alive.

I stick to the walls because there is a lot of open space in this building. There are also more than one floor, but I’m pretty sure what I’m looking for is here on the bottom floor. The windows are darkened out so I have to depend on my night vision to see anything. How do you humans do it? Even with a high-powered flashlight it would be difficult to see in this damned place.

There are a row of shelves in front of me. Those modular ones that are on rails. They are covered in dust caked sheets and murky thick plastic. They are pretty much rusted in place due to misuse and time, but are easy to circumvent, and on the other side I find what I’m looking for.

There are two large carts, almost like mine carts, except without the wheels, and they are both full of body parts. All fresh, so much so there aren’t any flies or any type of insects around. No rats. No nothing. Just lots of blood, covering all the body parts, the carts, the floor, the wall behind the carts, and the windows.

A presence coming up on my right side. I feel and I see. I know.

“I’ve seen this once before,” Quinlan says as he steps to my side, eyeing the macabre scene before us, “but it has been several centuries.”

I haven’t seen this before, but I’ve heard of it over the years. There are things that go bump in the night, things besides strigoi and Lycans out there humans have no idea of. There are some things your minds couldn’t handle.

This is one of them.

‘It’s here because of the Master,” Quinlan explained. “Not at his behest, but it hopes to impress him. It hopes he has a use for it.”

“These things sleep, don’t they? Hibernate? It takes a great pull to bring them out of that slumber. Did it sense his intentions?”

Quinlan nods in answer, walking around the carts, mindful to avoid the blood splattered everywhere, running in rivets on the floor.

“I am loath to say it, but there is a certain meticulousness that is almost enviable.”

I study the pieces also. Quinlan is right – it is almost admirable. Too bad the thing that did this is seeking to win favor with Master. Then again, I can find little instances where a talent such as this would be of any use, especially a good one.

“It left no scent you could track.” A statement. An answer to an unspoken question. “It’s clever, I’ll give it that.”

There was nothing more we could do here so we made our way out of the warehouse and back to the street, on our way to the Olympian.

Once out on the street, he does something I don’t see coming. He reaches back, takes my hand in his, twining our fingers together, and slows down just enough to where we are walking side-by-side.

“I know you do it out of respect, but the way I see it, we are equal in all things now, so we should walk beside each other.” His face is shrouded by the hood, his eyes hidden by the shades, but I know he is smiling even if I can’t see it. “There is no longer an ‘alpha’ either. No more dominate or subordinate. We are one, two whole intertwined souls.”

“All right,” I agree and he doesn’t release my hand and I don’t want him to, and we continue down the street together all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about mistakes.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a smutty chapter for those of you who like these kinds of chapters. For those who don't, there is a bit of conversation toward the very end. A conversation about something other than sex. That's it though.

“Harder!”

The word is snarled directly into my ear just before my earlobe is taken between teeth and pulled hard. My growl rivals the rumble of his guttural purr. I oblige him, of course, pulling nearly all the way out before thrusting back in, _harder_ and he gasped loudly, arching up into me.

“Like that?” I have to ask, you know, just to make absolutely sure and all.

“Damned… Insolent… Pup,” he grits out one word per thrust. His fingers dig into me: five into the muscles of my shoulder blade, the others into the flesh of my ass. “Yes, just like that.”

It’s amazing how well he’s taken to this and likes it and enjoys it. Just like how easily we have switched roles. Actually, that isn’t true. We haven’t switched roles, we have just broadened them. Fifty-fifty. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t mind being the bottom every once-in-a-while and stating before that he enjoys it was an understatement. 

He’s hot and by that I mean both inside and out. A heat that is amazing. And tight. Really damn tight. Fast healing and high level stamina and strength. It all counts toward a very long and rewarding and satisfying experience. 

I imagine the reason why he never felt anything wasn’t necessarily because his previous lovers were human. I believe it’s because they were selfish, inconsiderate bastards who didn’t care to take to the time to find that right… _there_.

He bows up into me again, his fingers digging deeper, his nails drawing blood, which we both can smell. Add that to the throes of passion, lessens his control over his stinger. It, in turn, searches for the blood and even reaching around behind me, manages to find it all and lap it up.

He is quiet however. Even while I am jack hammering that spot inside of him, he’ll moan, groan, and purr, but nothing louder. I know it’s because we aren’t alone here and I wonder if we were alone, what kind of vocalizations I would get out of him then.

The bed squeaks and creaks and bangs though. How much more of this it can take is debatable.

He tightens about me even more and I groan loudly at the intensity. So bloody damn tight I’m having trouble moving. He retracts his stinger and looks into my eyes.

“I’m close,” he tells and I know it as well as he does, but he whispers it to me anyway. I snake a hand down to wrap around his cock so he doesn’t have to release the anchor hold he has on me with arms and hands. His feet are braced on my hips. “Really damn clo-” He is. He goes over the edge, arching again, almost bowed in half and the purr and moan, that combination, and that undoes me. He spills over onto my hand and his stomach as I flood his insides and it’s just fucking incredible. 

I need to invent new words, ones that relay this feeling because there aren’t any that are good enough.

Before lying down next to him, I proceed to lick him clean. I’m a good puppy, I am. His still not completely soft cock and then his stomach and wherever else on his person there are beads or streaks of pearly white stuff. It’s funny, but I have always heard that semen had a particular taste. Salty. Sweet. A combo of both. Pleasant. Unpleasant. Honestly, his doesn’t taste bad, but it isn’t either salty or sweet. Which makes sense because he only ingests blood - _my blood_ \- so then I guess he should taste like me? Right?

Anyway, once I’m completely sure I did a thorough job (and he has smacked me very hard on the back of the head), I roll over onto my back, laying next to him, and stare up at the ceiling for all of ten seconds before I open my mouth to talk.

“So,” I begin, “what to do now.”

He scoffs before reaching over and taking one of my hands in one of his. This touchy-feely-stuff and I’m talking about the non-touchy-feely-sex-stuff (which is always superb!), is pleasant and natural. I raise our hands up over us, fingers entwined as they are, and just fixate on them.

“You know I’m going to repay in kind,” he states, his thumb rubbing the knuckle of mine. “In a moment. Let me bask first. For a slight bit at any rate.”

I have no problem with that. “Anything you want to talk about while you bask or do you want to bask in silence.”

I start to believe silence is his option, but then: “The Professor, I am to understand, is photocopying the Lumen.”

“Ugh! That accursed book!” I make even more disgusted noises.

“You don’t believe it holds the answers we seek on how to defeat the Master?”

“It’s not that. It just – I don’t know.” I sigh, resting our still entangled hands on my stomach. “I wonder what it says in there about Lycans. If it speaks of the Ancients, New World and Old, then it has to mention Lycans as well. Our histories are woven together. I mean, is it like a history book also? Does it mention the Concord and the betrayal? Does it talk about my aunt, and what she did, and the price she paid for it?”

“I’m to help the Professor study the Lumen since I am familiar with the languages that it was written in.” He lifts our hands up and brings them to his mouth where he kisses my knuckles one at a time. “I will be vigilant for any mention of your family or Lycans in general and inform you of what I find.” Then he lazily rolls over, laying his body out on top of mine. “Now, I believe it is my turn to oblige you.” He kisses me, both our eyes open and fixed on each others. “You know how I love to look at you, but –” he catches my bottom lip in his teeth and nibbles on it before releasing it “- I think I would much prefer it this time to take you from behind…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry once again. I have been writing some short stories for both printed and online magazines and working on another fic. So sorry about delay. I went back and edited this chapter since it has been so long since i wrote it. i think I put off posting because I'm at the point to where I'm unsure what to write until the new season starts. If I missed anything editing wise, I'm sorry yet again!


	23. Chapter 23

“You don’t like me much, do you?

It’s Fet asking the question. It isn’t that I don’t like him. I do, or at least I would, if he didn’t have that attitude problem against Quinlan. That I can’t tolerate or look over or ignore. 

“Okay. Don’t answer me.” He mumbles, rather childishly I might add.

I sigh in annoyance. “I do, or I _would_ if you didn’t treat Quinlan the way you do.”

Why am I down here, crawling through the intestines of this city, with Fet, and not back at the Olympian with my world, my heart, my soul?

Well, the Professor did photocopy the book, or at least most of it. Ostensibly in what can be whimsically labeled as a **_VAMPIRE APOCOLYPSE_** , Kinko’s is still open and ready to go with all your copying needs.

Anyway, so Quinlan, being versed in many languages, among them Latin, Greek, Samarian, and Ancient Egyptian, is helping the Professor find some clue to take down the Master – hopefully without taking my world, my heart, my soul with him.

Being a Lycan, I decided that sitting around reading is a waste of my energy and though I do _love_ to watch Quinlan do anything, I can only handle so much of observing him reading that damned book before I get bored. And, in case you didn’t know, a bored Lycan, being around one’s mate especially, is a randy Lycan. 

After half a day, Quinlan told me I had to find something to do to which I replied “You! I have _you_ to do!” And no matter how much I whimpered and gave puppy eyes and practically begged (no, really, seriously, I mean literally – shamelessly - down on my knees, pleading with him) he told me to go help Fet find what he believed was a strigoi nest somewhere in the bowels of the city. To put my energy to good use while he helped the Professor with the important task of deciphering the Lumen.

“I don’t trust strigoi,” is his argument.

I sigh again before turning on him so fast that he jumps back in surprise, reaching for his weapon, but it is a futile gesture.

“ _He is not strigoi_!” I snarl. My hand snakes out and grips the front of his shirt and I use it to lift him off the ground. “He is human. His mother was human and his father was human. He was conceived just like you or me, but unfortunately his mother was bitten by the Master while he was in the womb.” I set him down, more gently than I intended, gaining control of myself. I don’t want to turn into my alt-form here or now. “He can’t change anyone into a strigoi because he doesn’t have the worms other strigoi and the ancients do. And he doesn’t feed on humans, not anymore. He feeds on _me_.”

My eyes must have flashed, Lycan gold meaning ‘pissed off’ because he righted himself then held his hands up in the air. “Sorry.” He was saying it in apology for upsetting me – not for his attitude towards Quinlan. 

“I find it strange that you mistrust him, but yet you don’t seem that afraid of me.”

“You’re different,” he said with a shrug, putting his hands down and straightening his shirt and coat back into place.

“No, I’m not,” I say with a chuckle, one not of amusement. “He’s my mate. It’s my duty to protect him. So, you had best keep in mind that if it wasn’t for him asking me not to, I would have rendered you limb from limb by now for your disrespect of him. You insult him, you insult me. You would do very well in remembering that.”

We walked on for a few more moments before he asked: “The Professor said that Lycans were from Austria, Hungary, and Transylvania. Why do you sound like an Aussie?”

“And some parts of Romania. The ancestral home is in the Carpathian Mountains. Impossible for humans to get to. As for my accent, my people are great mimickers. We hear an accent and we can mimic it perfectly. I like the Irish accent. In London, I’m a Brit. In New Zealand, I’m a kiwi. In Ireland, I’m an Irishman. In the States, I prefer to be a Kiwi, not Aussie.” I shrug.

“Blending in, huh?” Fet shook his head, still smiling. “Do the Professor and your boyfriend really think they are going to find anything useful in that book?” The shift in conversation was quick, but not surprising.

“First of all, _boyfriend_ sounds like one of us is a fifteen year old girl, which neither one of us is, so the term we prefer is ‘bond mate’ or even ‘consort’ if you’re feeling _really_ old fashioned. Second of all – yes. They do.”

“Do you?”

I stop and look back at him. In the dark I can see fine, but he has to have that lamp. It blinds me for a few seconds, but I adjust. 

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I’ve only heard a little about the book before now and that was over five-hundred years ago. My grandfather, Victor, he knew of it, spoke often about it, with much distain and disbelief. But I think he really knew that it existed and he hated that it does.” I wondered, to myself, if my grandfather knew that the Lumen was here, if he would send Shadowhounds to try and retrieve it.

If that happened, such a slim chance, but if it did, I wouldn’t have any problem fighting against my own kind. Let’s make damn clear that it would be for Quinlan, and I know he can handle himself and all that, but it’s in my nature to protect him whether he needs it or not. _Him._ I would fight anyone and anything for _him._ Not that damned book.

I honestly can’t tell you exactly why I hate that book so much. As I said, I didn’t know much about it before and even seeing the thing, I still don’t know a lot about it. It has been the source of some problems, mainly the one where Quin and Eph stole it and now Dr. Goodweather is out-of-the-fold, so-to-speak, and there is a noticeable edge of mistrust now between Quinlan and the Professor, even more so between him and Fet. Besides that, there really isn’t anything tangible that I can put words to, but it doesn’t change the fact that I just don’t like that damned book.

I know one thing for certain and that is that the Master isn’t stupid or foolish. Not to make Lycans all-powerful, but there is a reason why the Master’s strigoi haven’t invaded my (former) clan’s lands. He fears the Lycan army. You have no idea what thousands of Lycans, transformed and able to walk in the day and hunt as we can, are capable of. As long as the strigoi do not threaten the clans, throw themselves at the walls of Lycan fortitude, my grandfather will not raise a finger to stop this catastrophe. Lycans care nothing of humans and their plights. In fact, as far as my people are concerned, humans are a plague, as annoying and insignificant as a mosquito shrilling buzzing about our ears.

So, the fate of the human race is not a reason my people will enter this fight. Though they hate the strigoi, they will not move against them if they aren’t threatened. The Master knows this. He knows my people. He should. They go way back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this stuff written for months, but have been dragging my feet and going back and adding stuff because I've been waiting on the new season. Now that I have a date on when the season starts, I feel I can post more and get caught up to be able to blend in with the new season. Nope, I haven't watched the preview for this season. I'm kinda afraid to.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for this chapter, which is a little bit of background on Strigoi and Lycans, Underworld pops up again. But Victor isn't a vampire in my story. I just had to use him because I love Bill Nighy so much!! Seriously. I adore that man. He is awesome!
> 
> Enjoy! Mistakes are mine. I only own Inris! BLAH BLAH BLAH!!!
> 
> Also, in going over chapters to add and make them longer, I realized two things. The first was that the premiere of the last season is just around the corner and I still have 7 chapters to port before then. Also, one chapter isn't even finished. What I did was start it and then move on to the next chapter and then the next and on and on and now I have to go back and finish that chapter. I've been busy and then incapacitated so I am slowly getting back to it. I will finish so I can post these chapters before the season premiere.

I’m going to tell you a little story.

Once upon a time…

There were seven strigoi lords. They ruled by fear and fed whenever and on whoever they pleased. They had no rival, none except one.

Lycans and our cousins, the werewolves, were a threat so the strigoi lords kept us cowed. Lycans, being more intelligent than our werewolf cousins, were kept as pets, in cages and on leashes, paraded around, humiliated, and oppressed. We didn’t know in better back then. We were taught from birth that we were animals and nothing more.

Of course, we got smarter, and realized we outnumbered the strigoi by a great margin. We were not just mere beasts. By some means, exactly how has never been spoken of for some reason through the ages, we discovered we had a human form. We could also control our cousins, the werewolves, who weren’t considered intelligent enough to cage and were allowed to roam the country-side as wild animals.

The one who figured all this out was my grandfather, Victor.

Thus, Lycan’s revolted and we escaped the chains of our masters and made our own and _yada yada yada_.

All of that is pretty cut and dry, but it was what happened after that we don’t speak about. At all! _Ever!_ It is strictly forbidden. We like to pretend that little bit of history didn’t happen but I’m no longer a member of the clans so I can do whatever the hell I want to. And the tale goes a little something like this…

There came a time, for the sake of survival, (as in ‘we won’t kill you if you don’t kill us’) my people and the seven strigoi lords called a truce and thus the _Concord_ was established. 

Seven vampires lords to seven Lycan lords. My grandfather being the eldest, and then his six children: My aunt, the eldest of the children, my father, and their four younger brothers.

I never met my aunt. She was dead long before I was born and for good reason.

The _Concord_ stated that one vampire lord and one Lycan lord would be awake and ruling at one time. A hundred years and then the next in line were awakened and so forth and so on, on down the line until it started over again with the eldest. Those who were awake worked together. Well, not really. They avoided each other and ruled theirs separately, not really caring what the other did just as long as it didn’t interfere with them.

So, for fifteen-hundred years this worked. Until the third time the Master was awakened, which coincided with my aunt being awakened, and then all hell broke loose.

I never understood why the Master was chosen to be awake what was basically second in line. As per my understanding, he was the youngest of the strigoi lords. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake, as it will be made clear why.

For a reason either unknown or unspoken of, my Aunt, Cornelia, sided with the Master and tried to take out the other twelve lords. They failed miserably. Those loyal to my grandfather woke him up early, and he not only drove the Master away, but exacted the punishment for Aunt Cornelia’s betrayal – he cut off her head. She offered no resistance. According to what my mother told me, for she was there also, she went to her death without a word or a flinch.

My grandfather woke the other strigoi lords and broke the _Concord_ thus ending the pact between our two peoples. 

Quinlan already knew all this. He was alive when this happened, though he didn’t know what the particulars were since he had no one to ask. My people believe that a strigoi is a strigoi whether born or not. 

It’s amazing how I’ve only been away from him for a few hours and yet I feel as if it has been much, _much_ longer. 

So, that was my story. Not too elaborate, but just information enough to get the point across I was trying to make.

Here I am, with Mr. Fet, after having crawled through a hole dug through the wall of a music store in Greenwich Village, and taking care of a few strigoi who had been sentient enough to use a tunnel digging machine to open up new avenues into the safe zone for other strigoi to use. Crawling through that damn tunnel had been a pain, though easier for me than for Fet, but still, a bitch on my clothing and such a nice jacket too.

My attire was even more dirtied when Fet tossed one of the strigoi into the rotating teeth of the machine, a cascade of white blood and chopped up worms, plus some bone, into the air and all over us. So nice of him to do that!

If I concentrate hard enough, I can not only hear the words Quinlan speaks, but the words spoken by others around him. I can also see through his eyes if I really feel the need and all is vice versa. Also, any strong emotions I can feel automatically, and again, vice versa. So, as Fet and I get ready to propel down several dozens of feet, further and further below Central Park, I get a glimpse of bright light and then ‘ _army of thousands…sealed in a stone box…silver and iron._

Baby stepped out into bright sunlight. I had to laugh. Has old as he is, he had to know it was daylight outside, and yet he just walks out onto the roof like it doesn’t bother him. Doesn’t catch him on fire at any rate. Just annoys the hell out of him and burns his eyes for a time.

Down and around and then finally we find what we’ve been searching for. I smell them long before we reach them, and I can definitely hear them growling in slumber, or whatever it is they do.

Hundreds and hundreds of strigoi. Hell, maybe even thousands. “Bloody fucking hell,” I murmur and Fet agrees with me with a murmured “yeah”.

Even if I transformed and jumped down there, the numbers were just too overwhelming. I could put a dent in them, and they couldn’t kill me, but even a Lycan has just so much stamina.

We leave them be and soon are back on the surface, standing in the green field that is the park, the city chaos around us, bleeding smoke and wails of anguish.

“Bloody fucking hell!” I say again, louder this time, damn near screaming it and I suddenly _hate_ my people. We are like the spoiled elder child – stomping our foot and tossing our nose into the air when we don’t get our way.

“Yeah,” Fet again agrees, tucking his map of the park and surrounding area back into his pocket. “I gotta tell Feraldo what we found. You can tell the Professor when you get back to the club.”

I nod and with what we saw fresh in our minds, we each go our separate ways.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Chapter I said last time that I found out wasn't finished, which just happens to be 25, I'm ignoring it. Taking it out completely. I tried to rewrite it but it just f's up the flow because going back is a hassle I don't have time for. I am in no way going to abandon this fic, but I'm writing 6 different things right now, 4 of which are to published and getting me paid, so they are my top priority. I know the new season is starting next Sunday, and I haven't written the end of season 3 yet in this fic so I need to get that done. To make it up to you, I'm posting this chapter and another one. I hope you enjoy!!

I love my life.

I swear I do. In spite of the city full of strigoi that I find myself in, I _love my life!_

The reason should be obvious. It is, of course, the man walking in front of me as we make our way from the Olympian Club to where Dr. Goodweather is. 

Heaven help me, I love to watch this man walk.

I hear him sigh and see the slight movement of him shaking his head. 

“Voracious, aren’t you?” He says over his shoulder.

“Quite,” I answer, practically skipping along. “Don’t act so surprised. You knew better when we met, and yet you still screwed me senseless.”

“You make it sound like I had to work very hard to _screw you senseless._ ”

I let his joking insult go. He’s talking dirty to me, or some equal of, if only in my mind. I’ll let anything slide for that. 

He shakes his head again and then stops in front of a large black door. 

“He’s got strigoi in there.” I can hear and smell them even through the reinforced door.

The battle in Central Park last night had been brutal and many of the cities remaining policeman had been killed, turned, or injured. While Fet, along with a human woman and a man named Gus, had set off a bomb packed with silver dust and taken care of the strigoi he and I had found earlier yesterday, we found out the hard way that it hadn’t been the only nest.

Fet, along with the Professor, was going to see if they could find the materials to construct the ‘box’ that Quinlan and Abraham found referenced in the Lumen. Well, actually Quin found it, but that isn’t the point. The point is the Egyptians had used a silver and lead lined box to entrap one of the old world ancients. The plan was to use one, if it could be made, to seal the bastard away and dump him, box, and all, into the ocean.

It is something that makes me reevaluate. I detest that book, but it is giving us an alternative to taking the Master out and it is one that I will embrace because there isn’t a chance that the man I love will die in the process for just having done it. So, I will help build the box, or whatever I have to do, if it means that Quinlan will be safe and sound once that bastard, the Master, is 20,000 leagues under the sea.

I knocked and a small door slides open and part of Eph’s face appears in it. Then it was shut and I could hear several bolts being thrown and finally the door opens and Quin and I are ushered inside.

And there are strigoi in here alright. The good kind. The tied down or cut into pieces kind.

“I see that you’ve been busy, doctor,” Quinlan states with a slight grin of amusement that is reflected in his tone. I hang back, back against the door, just in case. One can never be too cautious.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dr. Goodweather returns with a certain amount of pride. “Strigoi brain stem.” He motions to the brain, and stinger of a strigoi strapped to the table. It’s still moving and if one can tell from only a brain, and stinger, none too happy about its current situation. “We believe this –” he reaches into the brain with a pair of tongs and pulls out a hectic mass of white worms “-is their communication center.”

Right about that time a young woman comes into the room from the back. Blonde, not overly attractive, with way too much eyeliner and smelling, like the doctor, of way too much alcohol. It’s amazing these humans get anything done, considering how much liquor they consume every damn day.

“We?” Quinlan is staring at her. And I know exactly what he is thinking.

Don’t take this the wrong way, but women have a tendency to over-think and over-analyze things and then make decisions based on emotion, and usually the wrong ones. A woman is nothing but trouble. Sorry, ladies, but over twenty-five-hundred years between Quinlan and I, no instance has ever proven that fact wrong. 

“Oh! You haven’t been introduced.” Dr. Goodweather set his instruments aside and turns to face the woman. “Dutch Velders –”

“Yeah. I know what - _who_ you are. Sorry.” She says as Quinlan approaches her.

“And Inris Blackwood,” Eph continues. He turns to me and actually waves. 

The woman, Dutch, looks over at me and nods. I can smell her fear and can see how uncomfortable she is.

Quinlan studies her for a few seconds, and he, like I, isn’t much impressed. “Hmm…” is the only sound he bothers to make, though I do admit to a sharp pang of jealousy for a few seconds. Why, I don’t know. Something about the way he looked at her. I can feel that it was nothing, just my imagination, but something triggered the green-eyed-monster in me.

“What do you hope to gain by dissecting these unfortunate creatures?” Quinlan asks, turning his attention back to Eph. I push my back off the door and stand at the table where Eph is, studying the brain and stinger he has hostage. It seemed to be trying to cringe from me. That makes me smile.

“Well, their communications ability is one of their distinct advantages,” the doctor states. “We saw that in action during the Central park massacre.”

“See this.” Dutch grabs what looks to be a printout of some sort and holds it up for Quinlan to inspect. “This is a sampling of all strigoi communication. It’s…” she trails off as Quinlan takes a step closer to examine the page, “…varying but occupying a fairly predictable range. Until here.” There is a spike on the printout towards the end of the page. I can see it as I step around the table and take a few steps closer to where Quinlan stands.

“A call-to-arms, we think. A direct signal from the Master.” Eph explains.

Quinlan takes the printout, appears to be studying it closely as if it interests him. “The Lumen refers to the silent voice of the Master.” He sets the pages down on the table nearest him. “Interesting, yet trivial.”

“Not if we can isolate it. If we send it out with the rest of the strigoi static then we can use this technique to track him down.” The doctor is convinced this isn’t just a waste of time.

Dutch chimes in: “So we need a point of reference.”

“JFK.”

“The black box.”

“From Regis Air 753. It might still have his _voice_ or whatever command he used to incapacitate 210 souls on board.”

I have no idea what they are talking about, but Quinlan doesn’t seem as in the dark as me. 

“JFK, that’s well outside the safe zone. Even if we go in daylight, we don’t know what we are getting ourselves into.” As Dutch spoke, Quinlan began to talk toward the door. As he passed me, he whispered: “Let’s go” and I knew we weren’t going back to the Olympian Club. 

He stops, turning around, allowing me to pass him, his gaze taking in both humans in turn. “Are we going?”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note here: this is my own interpretation of the episodes as I see them through the eyes of a centuries old Lycan and how he perceives humans. So, there was in the last chapter a bit of Dutch-bashing and there will be a little bit in this chapter also. And it might seem kinda sexist what Inris says about women and fighting and all that. As a woman, I agree, but then again -- MALE LYCAN VIEW POINT, so just keep that in mind. Now, on with the show.

So here we are, all piled into Dr. Goodweather’s yellow cab. The back seat and window is splattered with blood. He could’ve cleaned that up if he’d really wanted to.

Eph is of course driving and Dutch is riding shotgun. That leaves Quinlan and I in the back seat. I love him, I truly do, but he insists on sitting nearly in the middle of the bench seat, I guess so he can have a better view of what is coming up ahead and not have to lean over to see around Dutch’s fathead. I snicker, because she really doesn’t have a fathead, but it’s the thought that counts, right? It’s mostly hair and sock hat really. Eph glances at me in the rearview mirror and I refuse to give in to the urge to stick my tongue out at him.

We come to a roadblock of sorts on Atlantic Avenue. The heavy armed and armored NYPD officers standing guard stop the cab. There is a police car blocking our further advance. “Do you realize you’re leaving the safe zone?” The officer on Eph’s side asks through the open driver’s side window. Ephraim nods his affirmative. “Beyond here, Queens is a no-man’s land.”

“Plenty of daylight,” the doctor counters. 

“That guy in your backseat,” the officer at Dutch’s side begins, glancing behind her to us, “he doesn’t look right.”

I want to snarl at him but Quinlan is quick to take my hand and squeeze it, both calming me and telling me to let it go.

“He isn’t, but he’s with me.” Eph flashes his CDC badge to both officers.

“Keep your eyes open, sir,” the cop on the driver’s side says, his tone not withholding a hint of reluctance. “Don’t stop for nothing or nobody.”

_Don’t stop for nothing or nobody._ That is what the cop said. Keep those words in mind for future - a very near future’s - reference. 

The police car backs up, allowing Eph to drive around it and we are on our way.

Farther along, it’s apparent that the area outside the safe zone is visibly more war-torn than the area we just left. Trash lines the street as do abandoned cars, furniture, clothing, shopping carts, even rolled up rugs, bed frames, mattresses, among other things. 

“Holy shit!” Dutch curses and she isn’t wrong. There are people here, some armed, some not. Some alive and some it is difficult to tell if they are or not. People are sitting or laying on stoops and trash. 

Dr. Goodweather has a pistol in his hand as he grips the steering wheel. Dutch is likewise armed, making sure their weapons are visible to keep anyone from trying anything stupid. Some of these people are looking at us as if they want to attack us. Let them. They will get a hell of a lot more than they bargain for. 

“I was in South Sudan once. It was like disease and war had a contest to see who could create more suffering. I never thought it could happen here.”

“Civility is an illusion,” Quinlan says from beside me. I turn my eyes from the humans watching us pass-by wearily to him. “Savagery is the default state of humanity.” I want to laugh at that also, but I don’t. He is still holding my hand, the seat dictator. 

“That’s reassuring,” Eph states sarcastically.

“You think that is bad,” I begin as my gaze continues to take in this humanity in desperation, “I was in France during the Famine. People in the streets, dying, crying out to God and King to help them. The walking dead. The dead were taken out in the streets to be picked up and carted away, their bodies burned. The stench was unbearable. Two-million died in two years. Starving – watching your children starve, knowing there is nothing you can do, is a horrible way a die.”

Eph glances at me in the rear-view mirror, a whispered ‘shit’ as he focuses back on the road. Quinlan squeezes my hand again. He and I both know he has seen the equivalent and, in some instances, far more worse things. But just because we are what we are, doesn’t make it any easier. Human suffering is not something we are privy to lightly or without sympathy. It may seem like it, but we are affected as well, moved by your plight. I think that we have just witnessed it time and time again over our centuries that we have learned to not let our sympathy take control of us, thus making us seem like heartless bastards. Maybe all-in-all, we are a bit jaded.

Through the open windows, we can hear a woman screaming and a man trying to convince the men holding the woman, obviously his wife, to let her go. The man holding the woman has a gun and it is aimed at the woman’s husband. The purple Dodge van they have loaded up and ready to go is stopped on the street, side door slid open, and a child screaming in the backseat.

Remember what I said earlier about the policeman’s warning? Well, the future is now!

“Stop! Stop! We need to help them!” And just like that, Dutch proves my earlier thoughts right as she jumps out of the car, all emotional, and runs to help the man and his wife and child.

“Doctor, do not follow her –” But Quinlan’s words fall on deaf ears as Ephraim throws the taxi into park and jumps out after Dutch.

We sit there silently for a few seconds, turning and meeting each other’s eyes. I am tempted to just let them go, climb into the front seat, and take off, but then we wouldn’t need to go to the airport then, would we? All of this would have been a big waste of time, even bigger than it is with the Doctor and his assistant, Eye-liner.

We both sigh in aggravation and acquiescence before vacating the vehicle ourselves. 

“Let go of them! Let go!” Dutch yells as she runs up and points her gun at the men. Eph joins her as the men start threatening that they will kill the woman. One of them grabs the father, holding his gun to the man’s face. The younger child in the van is crying.

The man is saying something about “five on two” and then Quinlan’s sword has pierced his back and exited through the center of his heart and the idiot is dead long before he hits the ground. Another man comes up behind Quinlan and he just reverses his sword and then that one is dead and the last one, who has released the wife, steps forward, but he isn’t anywhere near as fast as Quin, and in seconds he is dead also.

People are coming up behind Dutch and Eph who turn and shoot one each and the others run off. I stay exactly where Quin told me, by the taxi to keep someone from hoping in and stealing it since Eph left the motor running and all. I didn’t even have to draw my weapons.

“Go!” The man tells his wife, pushing her toward the passenger side of the van as he comes around, slams the van door, his eyes on Quinlan, and in spite of the fact that he just saved him and his family’s lives, he’s frightened. Quinlan just stares at him, unmoving.

“No. No. No, wait. We’re not…dangerous,” Dutch says almost pleadingly as the man tears out of there, taking out a shopping cart as he guns it down the street. Speak for yourself, I want to tell her. She and the Doc may not be ‘dangerous’ but Quinlan and I sure as hell are.

Quinlan steps over the bodies. “Were you expecting a ‘thank you’?” Dutch and Eph don’t answer. Eph’s gun is still ready in case of trouble, but they both seem kinda dazed and somewhat confused. “From now on, stay inside the vehicle.” It’s nothing short of an order. He turns and comes back toward the taxi, but then he stops and his stinger unfurls and cleans the blood from the blade. Once it recedes, he turns to glance over his shoulder back at the two humans, and I can hear the low growl of annoyance and aggravation before he walks over to me.

“Next time, I want to go somewhere nice,” I tell him, with a slight pout and big eyes. I get a small smile out of him before we climb back into the taxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, forgive me for any errors. I haven't had the time to go back and edit. Sorry about that.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, new season finally here and I'm trying to figure out where my character will fit in. hum....

Believe it or not, we make it to the airport without further incident. There are planes, of course, abandoned on the runway, along with various vehicles and those moveable stairs for the unloading of passengers on the tarmac. It’s a ghost town, or a ghost airport. It’s creepy, for some reason I can’t explain. I guess because it is so… _forsaken_. Not like in the city where there a people and strigoi in diverse numbers. There are strigoi here, but not very many. 

Eph points us in the general direction and then Quin and I are off, not bothering to wait on them. Quinlan is still upset about the whole fiasco from earlier and I get the feeling that being ‘fed up’ with them is a close description.

Down as bunch of stairs, luggage and clothing, among other things, strewn all over the place. At the bottom of the steps, he stops and turns to me, and I can see amusement on his face.

“You were jealous. Why?”

I could play dumb, but I want to get what we need to and get the hell out of here. It takes a lot to freak out one such as I, and I never thought that the strigoi infested streets of the city would be better than this place.

“Maybe, a little,” I admit with a shrug. “Though I don’t understand why.”

“Nor do I,” he says, a hand slipping under my coat and to the small of my back. He glances over my shoulder but the humans are taking their sweet, precious time in getting here. “You know there is no one on this earth, especially a human woman, who could hold my interest for a mere fraction of a second over you.”

“I know,” I say, leaning into to him. He purrs as he noses that spot on my jaw just below my ear. “Foolish, I know. Like I said, I don’t know why.”

“I love _you_ , and only _you_ ,” he whispers to me. I can hear the humans getting closer so he goes to move away from me, but just before he does, he adds: “And it isn’t just because of your wickedly talented tongue and vividly flushed scarlet cockhead.” 

And then he is moving on, Eph and Dutch just now reaching the stairs, and I stare after him for a moment, rolling my eyes and shaking my head, all in good spirits at Quin’s words, before I follow him farther into this desolate place. 

The automated announcements are still in working order and being relayed throughout the airport which only adds to the creepiness of the place. Being reminded to please not leave baggage unattended it not only redundant, but almost cruel and definitely morbid.

Eph and Dutch are talking about something and have been nearly the entire time since we entered this place. Someone names Nora and about Eph having been here before, at this airport and – AH! He was here the night the Master was brought here, to the states. He blames himself for all of this. If he had only stopped the Master that night somehow. Well, it isn’t his fault. He is, after all, only human. If it is anyone’s fault, it is the Ancients who in their complacency allowed the Master to run amok. 

I catch up with Quinlan only to wait for Eph and Dutch. It is quiet here, on the surface anyway. Quinlan turns here and there slowly and I know he can hear various noises about this place. I can also. Creaking and moaning from not being used, some noises from the wind also, but there are strigoi here also. 

“Do we stick together or should one of us go take care of the vermin infesting this place?” I ask, moving so his arm brushes mine when he turns once again, focusing on another sound.

“Stick together,” he answers, reaching up to pull the hood down lower over his bare head. The sunglasses add a nice touch though I prefer him without them. I prefer him with a lot of things, all wardrobe related, but I understand their necessity to him. “There aren’t many.” He is referring to the strigoi. “Not as many as one would think in such a building, but these humans are like children sometimes and need constant supervision, especially if they are inebriated.”

I nod in agreement as the doctor and Dutch catch up with us. On through we go until we come to the area where Eph believes the black box, hopefully, is located. It is even more desolate than the main area of the airport. Dark and too still, even though strigoi are definitely here. It is so quiet that even when trying to make so very little noise, Dr. Goodweather and Dutch sound like they are auditioning for the Riverdance. 

Quinlan leads the way and I fall in behind the humans. I’m getting that feeling again. That itchy one that makes my shoulders compulsively want to roll and a need to keep the growl that fights to be free from the back of my throat. I can sense the strigoi and has I have stated before, there aren’t many, but something is making me want to shed (literally) my human skin and tear through this place with claw and fang. Maybe my wolf’s blood just wants to come out and play, run free, render my enemies limb from limb and all that. It has been awhile since I’ve let him out of his cage.

But this isn’t the time for that and I do roll my shoulders over and over. It is a resistless feeling that I don’t know how to get rid of otherwise and ignoring it isn’t in the equation due to its persistence. Annoying as hell also.

The door to the area where Ephraim thinks the black box is in is open, but the security shutter is only partially lowered. Once inside, my eyes continue to adjust until I’m seeing in nearly full night vision. Everything in here is cold so I can make out shapes and such.

“This is the place.” Quinlan doesn’t ask so much as comment. This is obviously where Ephraim hopes the box is.

The good doctor sighs loudly. “The plague hit so fast, hopefully they didn’t have enough time to bring it down to D.C.”

“It looks almost like a small generator, about the size of a breadbox,” Dutch chimes in, “and it’s not a black box. It’s actually bright orange.”

There is one small light on the bottom of the top shelf in the right corner as we come in and Eph turns on a swivel desk lamp. It gives a little more light but not too much. 

“Aha!” Dr. Goodweather exclaims after a quick examination of a desk drawer. He turns and holds up a few small bottles that clink together. “This trip isn’t a total loss.” He tosses one of the bottles to Dutch who catches it with a cheery: “Ooh! Thank you!” Eph holds up another bottle and waves it around. “Ever drank a drunk, Quinlan?” Q doesn’t answer: he just slides his shades back on, which he had removed while searching the room for the orange-black box. “No? More for us!”

As the humans consume the alcohol and continue their search, I follow Quinlan from the small room, back out to where there a carts and discarded suitcases and clothing strewn about.

We stand in silence. We don’t need to fill the silence with idle chatter. Besides, we are both warriors. We know when a fight is near at hand. The strigoi have to know that we are here and what he and I are. It just goes to show that the Master has passed no information on to them about the danger we pose to them.

They attack as one, which would be commendable if it were against anyone else in this city but Quinlan and I. The wolf is howling in my head. As I have stated before, unlike my werewolf cousins, the wolf is not a separate entity to Lycans, and though we can transform wherever we want, sometimes there is a pull that is very insistent. A restless spirit in a way.

Quinlan fires into the strigoi. I don’t even draw my weapons. I tear into them. There are only half a dozen or so and Q has taken out the majority of them, but the two that come at me directly I tear limb from limb in quick succession. 

I can hear Eph and Dutch: they have found the box and, hearing the gunshots, are making their way to us. I can hear their voices, their hearts beating, and even the sound of the blood rushing through their veins. I shake my head to clear it.

“You need to let loose,” Quinlan says in my ear, guns still in his hands. There are more strigoi around. “Set the beast free and let it run. Even a Lycan cannot deny that which is their very nature for too long. When was the last time you changed?”

I honestly couldn’t remember. A long time. It is terribly painful to transform.

“I fear the blackout that sometimes follows.” And it is true. Transforming from human to werewolf is violent and painful, as I have stated numerous times before, but the transition back to human is traumatic. The wolf is stronger in many ways than the human and thus sometimes the human blacks out. That makes a Lycan very vulnerable. Silver harms us greatly if injected, by any number of means, directly into our hearts or brains. The strigoi may not know this, but the Master and Eichhorst do.

“I will watch over you,” Quinlan tells me and then turns around to Eph and Dutch as they hurry up to us, black box in hand. “We found it? Good,” he says before shooting another strigoi coming from the direction we need to leave in. The humans hurry by as Q turns and shoots another coming from behind us.

“Okay,” I answer for his ears only and we take our leave of this place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about the cockhead was taken from American Horror Story: Roanoke, just modified a wee bit.
> 
> I still have no visual of Inris. I just can't find anybody pretty enough to fit him in my head.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just a chapter to prove that they can actually talk and not just fight and/or have sex.
> 
> And so sorry about taking so long. I've been watching the show and I have all these great ideas but I'm trying to stay on teh path of writing for profit and I've been making notes. I will get the new season stuff written, I promise.

_”Have you been so removed for your clan that you’ve even forgotten how to read portends, ones that are right in front of you?”_

_“Then guide me. That is why you have reached out to me, isn’t it?”_

I know I’m in a dream, but it is also more than that. My grandfather has crossed a great distance to reach me, so I know the importance. This link he has established with me allows me to revisit certain things, certain times, searching for the foreshadowing he speaks of.

My grandfather comes to stand beside me. We are on a vast plane, and I wonder if this isn’t a visual of his making for I have never even heard of such a place existing anywhere on earth. It is an endless green field all around us, as flat as a poker table, no trees or bushes or even a single blade of grass that is higher than all the others. The sky is a perfect blue, but much too dark to be a daytime sky, and there is even a moon floating above us. No, there isn’t a _single_ moon. There are three, all silvery light cascading around us.

_“Pay attention, my boy,” my grandfather begins, “the Master is just getting started. He has plans for the humans, plans we Lycans can do nothing to stop, not from our fortresses on the other side of the planet.” He looks at me, his stern visage unreadable. “The Born. The bastard son of a whore, cursed by the Master himself.” He huffs, facing again toward the field before us. He hasn’t changed since the last time I saw him, all those centuries ago. “Keep with him. If the both of you make it out of what is to come alive, I’ll give you a castle and holdings so the two of you can live happily and quietly ever after. Hell, you’ll deserve it!”_ The land begins to shift around us, fading out slowly around the edges. _”You have the means of knowing practically in the palms of your hand. Use it!”_

I jerk awake though I don’t know why. It wasn’t a nightmare, but as I think back on what my grandfather said to me, making sure I didn’t miss anything, I realize that he didn’t tell me a damn thing useful.

“Figures,” I mumble. I stretch, arching my back and twisting in just such a way that there are a few barely audible _cracks_ which feel really damn good for some reason.

“Was that your grandfather? Was that Victor?” I nod to him. He can see me even in the dark from his seat on the couch across from the bed. He doesn’t need to sleep so he uses the time to read or to just stare out the window, letting his mind drift back to places in his past. He is capable of something resembling sleep but that is only when he wishes to share his thoughts and memories with me as he lies by my side while I do slumber. With me it is more of a habit than a necessity.

“I met him once,” he states as he comes and sits beside me on the bed, facing me. “He strode up to me in the arena, ramrod straight, looking down at me with this air of superiority and yet I could detect the nobility in him, something which was lacking in most of the humans around us. He looked me up and down, made this strange noise that sounded like a chuff and a scoff at once, then sniffed as he turned on his heel and walked away.”

“Yeah, he’s famous for that. That sound is his thing, whatever it is.” I laugh. “When I was a child, I used to think he had something stuck in his throat.”

“Do you miss them?” He asks after a few moments of silence and I ponder my answer carefully.

“I miss my grandfather and most – not all – of my siblings. But most of all I miss the _feel_ of the clans and the lands. Being surrounded by those walls, high up in the snow-choked mountains, is rather exhilarating. Untouchable, impenetrable are words that aren’t just thrown around with wishes and hope. The clan lands _are_ impervious to any outside force. I never knew the meaning of false sense of security. But besides that- oh! -those lands are so beautiful and unspoiled. I miss the scent on the cold, brisk air, the crunch of pure white snow –” I sigh, shaking my head. “Lands I’ll never see again.”

His hand cups the side of my face and I nuzzle his palm, breathing him in deep.

“So, this castle he speaks of that he will give to us…” His tone is light.

I laugh. “If it is the one that I think it is, it was part ruin when I was a child. Filled up with snow and rain. What hasn’t collapsed is barely hanging onto the side of a mountain.”

“Sounds perfect,” he jokes with a shake of his head. “And those portends he hinted at? Any idea what he was talking about?”

It’s my turn to shake my head. “None. And I don’t think it’s because I’ve been away from the clans for so long. Lycan’s aren’t mystic or soothsayers or anything of the sort, not even Victor.” I scoff. “There are others that are, that my grandfather employs. Just another one of those creatures the humans either don’t know exist or don’t believe does. But I don’t have access to any such creature.”

“Yes,” he says with a nod, “they very rarely venture to the new world.”

“The ghoul doesn’t seem to mind.” The comment is said with much derision. 

In the old world, a ‘ghoul’ feeds on the corpses of the dead leaving what is left behind as a taunt to others, a sign that it is there and what it can do. They are hard to track and hard to kill. According to Lycan lore, the ghouls are a type of undead, one very different from the strigoi. 

I had heard rumors, in the underground of supernatural creatures, other creatures that humans have no idea exist, that the infamous Jack the Ripper was a ghoul, which makes perfect sense once one knows and understands about such creatures. Accepting that there are other things out there, demonic, undead, or otherwise, is difficult for most humans. Even with the Master and the strigoi wandering around there are still some who are in denial.

“Things are bad enough without a ghoul around,” I comment in a whisper. Earlier today, Q and I were deep under the city, walking through tunnels no human has traversed in a hundred years or more. We’ve found a subway car, one that – though the metal on the outside was tarnished and faded with age, was nearly immaculate inside, if covered in a thick layer of dust. When I touched one of the velvet covered seats, however, it collapsed and fell apart. There was still a food cart with several bottles of wine, uncorked, dishes and glasses. A luxury car sitting unused for over a century, a silent sentinel still waiting at a long abandoned station for passengers to come aboard.

“It’s as if haunted,” Quinlan stated as we climbed from the car. “In some strange way, that is how this place feels.”

And it’s was true. Someplace so untouched for so long, still lingering around, still wanting to be of some use, and obligatory to sit and do nothing more than that.

But out hunt for the ghoul wad fruitless and we returned feeling defeated. We both felt this was our last chance to catch the ghoul before we turned our attention fully to the Master and whatever plan he had in store for this city – and, I imagine, the world.

And, as usual, the wolf wanted to be free, but I felt that deep under the city was not the time for another beast to be running around. The wolf would’ve had a better chance of finding the ghoul, literally sniffing it out, but both Quinlan and I knew that the ghoul had passed through there too long ago to bother with tracking.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, watched the series finale last night and I AM PISSED!!!
> 
> I am going to finish this fic - don't worry about that - but I'm going to write an ending that goes along with the finale (insert a great deal of curse words here), and an alternate ending on how I think it should have ended in relation to Quinlan and my character.

So, while Dutch and Eph try to isolate the Master’s voice on the data recorder from the plane, the Professor and Fet have been meeting with Palmer. That is one human who just needs to stop breathing for one reason or another. Preferably, I would enjoy pulling his spine out through his navel and bashing his head in with it. Have I mentioned before how much I enjoy doing that?

The Professor and Palmer met in some parking garage, the Professor hoping that Palmer can find out what form the Master has taken. Palmer, who has a history with the Professor that goes _way_ back, exchanged information for some of “the white”, a substance the Professor uses to keep himself alive and kicking beyond the norm of a human lifespan. A cargo ship, owned by Stoneheart, Palmer’s company, is docked and apparently carrying a cargo of great importance. Whatever this cargo is, not even Palmer is being told. He was not even allowed to board his own ship. When he returned with armed assistance, every member of the crew was dead, and the cargo gone.

The Professor believes the cargo might be the Old World Ancients, and, having aligned themselves with the Master, were brought over to rid him of the three Ancients here in the city who doesn’t agree with his claim on this world.

Setrakian and Fet are to go after a man named Cyrus Minow. Palmer doesn’t like the fact that he is letting the man live free of charge at his housing and is working with Eichhorst in keeping him out of the loop about the cargo. Palmer has given them the means to get at this man and get some answers.

“It could be a trap,” Quinlan suggests as he, Setrakian, and Mr. Fet are standing in the center of the room here at West 54th St in Manhattan. I’m sitting off to the side, listening in, but nonchalant about the whole thing. Yes, I’m concerned, but there isn’t any sense in going all crazy about it.

“Palmer has everything to lose by betraying us. I don’t trust the man but I trust his self preservation.” Setrakian is determined, I’ll give him that.

“Fair enough.” I can tell Q isn’t happy at all about this.

“What we need to find out is if any of the Old World Ancients have come over here to join the Master in the fight.” Uh-oh. I see where this is going.

“Would the New World Ancients know what their brothers are up to?” Mr. Fet. Still with a wee bit of hostility toward my mate that I don’t like, but he has a point. Yeah, this going exactly where I thought it was going to go. 

Quinlan takes two steps to the Professor’s side. He knows where this is going as well. “I prefer not to go back there.” Meaning back to see his ‘uncles’. Family reunions suck, sometimes literally as the case may be.

“Their information is critical,” the Professor says. I hate it but he might have a point. “You’re the only one who can speak with them.”

Quinlan lets out a small sigh. “I’ll investigate.” Reluctance is prominent as he turns and leaves the room.

“Good,” Abraham states. He continues on, speaking to Fet, but I am already out of the room, catching up with Q.

“Do you really believe they know anything?” I ask as we make our way to our area where our weapons and gear is.

He shakes his head slowly. “It might not be a good idea – you going with me.”

I bark a laugh. “Babe, I’m going with you. You know damn well nothing is going to keep me from following you, so I might as well walk beside you. And you should also know how much I deplore good ideas.”

He manages a smile despite his reluctance for this particular mission. I sense his unease and though I’m trying to joke around it, the truth is I have this sense of foreboding. It tingles at the base of my spine, slits around inside my brain. It’s like a shadow that I can see out of the corner of my eyes only to have it disappear when I turn to look at it. My grandfather’s words from the dream are coming back to me and I want to push all of this away, but I know I can’t and shouldn’t even try.

I feel it. He feels it. Something bad is about to happen. And there might not be anything we can do to stop it.

Geared up and loaded to bear, we head out. Down and around until we come to the tunnel that will lead to where the Ancients are. We stop and the turns to me. We have been silent all the way here, but our minds have both been running together, as is usual, and I know what he is going to say.

“I’m stay here either.” I sniff the air, growling slightly. “I bet Lar has never even seen a Lycan in beast mode. Probably scare him senseless.”

He manages another smile for me, taking a moment to cup my cheek with a gloved hand before we departing down the tunnel. I lag behind, watching him as he goes and even after he rounds the corner, going deeper into the lair so-to-speak, I can still see him in my mind’s eye.

I hate this baleful sensation. The dreadful feeling of – well, _dread_. It hangs about like blanket, one heavy and sodden with it. I can’t shake it and I want to quicken my step to catch up with him. I have the sudden urge to beg him to give up on this quest to destroy the Master and let us leave, far away from here. Let the humans deal with this. I can hear my father, Lucian, saying how it’s about time someone culled the human population. We Lycans are only sorry it wasn’t us. He would know there was more to it than that. A truth even he can’t deny but he would rebuff the color of the sky just because he’s a belligerent prick.

In spite of how he left here the last time he met with his uncles, Quinlan strides right into their midst with a confidence I know he only partially feels. His footsteps reverberate along the long corridor and I get chills up and down my spine with each step he takes. I hang back just enough. I want them to know that I’m there, but I don’t want to draw away from the reason why we’re here.

“When you last stormed out of this chamber you vowed never to return.” Lar. All high and mighty. I stiffen the growl that invades my throat. 

“Much has changed,” Quinlan states. “I have a question. Perhaps a warning.”

The Ancients all growl low in turn. “We are listening,” Lar says for them.

“A few days ago, the Master arranged for a piece of cargo from Egypt to arrive here in New York via ship,” Quin begins and I don’t have to see them to know the Ancients aren’t too pleased with this information. “Now, the Lumen recounts an incident some 3000 years ago in which an army of Egyptians managed to seal one of your kind in a sarcophagus.” The Ancients are making noises that clearly speak of their discomfort with Quinlan’s words. I take a few steps closer, sticking to the shadows - just in case. “Is it possible that cargo that the Master has brought here is that very same ancient?”

Those three Ancients in that room are not happy at all. They are so upset they are ignoring my presence entirely.

“There is a possibility.” Lars, the voice of the New World Ancients.

“They were most eloquent.” Quinlan is getting his full confidence back. Kicking jerks in the teeth with news that doesn’t sit well with them, especially when those jerks are – in a way – your relatives, can do that to a person. “So, perhaps the Master has formed an alliance with one of your kind. Do you understand what it means if he has not sought the same arrangement with you? It means he intends to do away with you. Fortunately, the pawnbroker has devised a plan, gleaned from the pages of the Lumen.” Lar’s eyes shift to one of the Ancients. The mention of the Professor doesn’t sit well with them, no matter the situation. “One does not necessarily need to slay the Master to defeat him.”

“We do not trust the pawnbroker,” Lar says simply.

“Then I wish you a speedy death.” Quinlan turns to leave, to walk out on them once again.

“Wait!” Lar calls to him. Q’s eyes meet mine and he smiles ever so slightly before turning back to them. “What is your proposal?”

“I’m afraid it requires you to get down off those pedestals for something other than a captive human mean.” His steps are measured as he once again steps into the dim light in the chamber. 

“We are ready to listen,” Lar states.

“I’ll return this evening with instructions. Lucky for you, my current associates are amenable to dealing with undesirable partners.” The Ancients aren’t very happy with that either. I take one step, and that one step brings me into a bit of light just inside the corridor, putting me in plain view. I don’t need to see the grin on Q’s face. I can feel how he feels at having upset them so. He turns once more and leaves. I give them a half hearted salute and then follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, someone said in a comment about all they do is fight and have sex. Am I neglecting the ladder now in anyone's opinion?


	30. Chapter 30

The rest of the day was spent preparing for the confrontation that was sure to happen soon. Finding whose body the master now inhabited was the top priority and he was going to make a push to enslave the human race and obliterate all those who opposed him – namely us. It’s going to happen. We don’t know when, but it definitely will. Quinlan believes in being prepared and while I can think of a few things I’d rather be doing, he wants to clean and maintain our weapons so we’ll do that until we go see his happy-go-lucky trio of uncles.

Lycans never really prepare for war even when it is imminent. Or at least I don’t think we do or they do since I’m no longer a Lycan according to the clans and all. I’m just a guy who happens to be exactly like them.

“I’m a wolf trapped in a human body,” I say more to myself than anyone else. “No. That isn’t right, is it?” I shake my head in disagreement with myself. Have I mentioned that Lycans, and those like them but not them, are crazy? “That’s a werewolf. So, what am I if not a Lycan?”

“You’re a Lycan, whether they like it or not,” Quinlan states. He smiles at me and I can’t help but smile back.

The time finally arrives and we leave to go tell the Ancients the plan. As much as I don’t like them, having them onboard would be a huge asset and could shift the tide a bit more in our favor. 

Down, down, down we go (and over the hills and through the woods to Quinlan’s undead uncles’ house we go!) and as we make our way down the final corridor, I hang back a little, allowing Quinlan to step into the chamber first. The corridor leading up to and into the chamber is well lit. I don’t try to hide myself. I see no reason why I should. After all, they should expect me to have come with Quinlan.

“So, are you finally ready to act to save yourselves?”

“We are,” Lar answers, paying me no heed. Not even a snarl or a quick dart of the eyes.

Quinlan is just about to tell them what he needs to when he stops and as he turns his head to his right, I feel not only his trepidation, but this terrible sense of foreboding and my grandfather’s words come back to me as Quinlan turns to face what is coming.

A horde of strigoi. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Lar speaks for the Ancients who are stirring on their thrones in the face of this obvious threat. “You traitor,” Lar growls, his glance encompassing both Quinlan and myself before returning to the invaders. “You did this.”

As if Quinlan would do such a thing! And me! A Lycan! Idiot!

“No. This is not our doing. Nor is it our fight. You invited your own demise.” As Quinlan says this, Eichhorst steps frontward, a slim silver briefcase in hand. The Ancients are now all three stepped down and preparing to face the onslaught that is about to come.

As I draw my weapon and step to the corner to peer around, I see the German’s eyes flare red and hear the voice of the Master as it vomits from his mouth.

“The Born. What an unexpected pleasure. Fitting that you should be here and bear witness.” Behind him, more and more strigoi are pouring in and advancing. “And you,” he states, turning toward his ‘brothers’, “I knew the humans would be complacent but I never anticipated how impotent you three would be. You should have been masters of this world. Kings, emperors, gods! Instead, you are already so like statues to a fallen race. This step I take is more merciful than triumphant.”

If he is spewing anymore bullshit, then I’m beyond hearing it. I know Quinlan is not going to walk away from this fight. I can also smell what Eichhorst has in that case. A bomb. If Quinlan fights, then I fight, especially if those ancient bastards are going to put a fight. A Lycan I am. 

Time to unshackle the beast.

Muscles stretch and tear. Bones twist and break. Organs alter. The birthing of the wolf is not something I look forward to – any Lycan who does is a sick and twisted SOB – but once the wolf is released, it is so worth it. So, as hair follicles come to life, muscles and bones reattach, and fangs grown and complete form is shifted, I reach up with claws and tear the last remnants of human skin from my body.

I hear beeping, growling, gunshots. Battle. With a howl that echoes up and down the corridors, I leap around the corner. I briefly register that Lars and his guards have already fallen under the horde, but the Ancients are putting up a pretty good fight. This matters nothing to me. Getting to Quinlan is my priority.

The Strigoi that see me hesitate and well they should. None of them have ever seen a transformed Lycan and though the Master has not conveyed to them exactly what that means, they instinctively know enough through his blood to be wary. Hesitation or not, it doesn’t matter to me. I tear into them mercilessly. My claws separate heads from shoulders one after another. Those stupid enough to try and bite me soon find out why that is a bad idea and die as the worms in their veins shrivel up and die.

I see the bomb, but there is nothing I can do to stop that. I claw, rip, and shred my way to Quinlan who is slicing with sword and shooting as they come at him. The corridor before us is clear. I behead a few more as Quinlan takes care of the last of the horde that blocks out path.

“Go,” I say or try to say. Talking with a mouth full of two inch fangs while with the head of a large wolf is not easy. But Quinlan understands and races forward. I run fast on two legs, but can go even faster on four, but I take a few seconds to jump up and flip, digging my claws into the ceiling and then I take off. For a bunch of over-sized canines, we Lycans are more nimble then felines. Running on the ceiling is nothing to us. 

I can see Quinlan up ahead, a blur really, but then the explosion hits, and the ground – and ceiling – shake and everything is caving in and then –


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long to update. My mom has been in hospital and then in rehab and since I don't have internet at home, then it has been hard for me to leave her and go to the place where I usually go to use the internet since I don't trust her not to try and do something, as she says herself, dumb.  
> This chapter is one I don't think I will repeat because it's from Quinlan's POV and I don't think I nailed it.

The end of the tunnel is in sight. I can hear Inris behind me. The city is right there. Just a few more feet.

And then the tunnel is collapsing, debris cascading down, and dust obliterating the view of the city. I can _feel_ the tunnel coming down atop my head, and over two thousand years suddenly seems like too short a time for there was no way I could survive the weight of so much falling on top of me.

Then a weight hits me and I am gathered against fur and muscle and propelled out into the city air. I hear Inris huff in pain and I can feel where rocks are hitting his body as we fly forward, as he has used his Lycan body to protect me from damage. And in his love for me he would do anything to protect me. I do not like it, that he being so willing to throw himself into harm’s way to protect me, but I would do the same for him.

I land hard on the ground, and Inris manages to dig his claws into the cement on both sides of my head to give him just enough leverage to propel his body over mine. He lands on all fours, but he dipped his right shoulder and his heavy body bounced and rolled, finally coming to a stop a few dozen feet from where I lay.

I jump to my feet and go to him. Four hundred and fifty pounds of killing machine. Nearly eight and a half feet of granite-like bones and steel-corded muscles. Teeth so sharp, no human-made blade can come close, and claws that can render nearly anything to shreds, and it is looking up at me with all too human eyes. Eyes full of love and devotion. 

“Inris, my love,” I kneel down next to him and place my hand on his muzzle. “Are you hurt?”

What can only be a smile reveals those rows of teeth to me. He shakes his head and jumps to his feet. He towers over me, mighty chest heaving. 

He snarls, not one of anger, but one letting me know he is alright. It is difficult for Lycans to speak much in this form. It could be a while before he turns back to his human form given the adrenaline pumping through his system at the moment.

His snow white, thick fur proclaims his lineage. His family are the First, his grandfather Victor the only other living creature as old as the Ancient Strigoi, my uncles. 

The fur on his body is stiff and wiry, except in the areas where it’s thickest – shoulders, upper chest area, groin, and head. These areas are shaggy and soft, the hair along the head area long about the ears and back of the head. 

It might seem strange to some, humans in particular, that the love of my existence is standing before me in what can only be referred to as beast form. Not everyone can say that they calm their loved ones down by scratching them behind their ears and no one would try to do that with a werewolf at all. Lycans on the other hand, weren’t so touchy.

_I’ll change back soon._ Inris’ voice is in my head as he projects his thoughts to me through our bond. Interesting. _Not safe here. Must move, find a safe place for me to transform back._

Lycans are hard to kill, but it is not impossible if one knows the best time to attack them. Transforming back to their human form is when they are their most vulnerable. They are also in a weakened mental state. Regaining their human form is stressful on the human body and they go into a short but deep coma-like state. Usually, they are alone, somewhere secure and far away from danger. This has always been the case for him; specifically being clanless has long as he has been. Now, though, he has me to guard him and protect him through it.

“Come. We’ll find a place close to the Olympian Club.”

Making our way through the city was simple enough. Inris is able to run up walls and jump across streets from one rooftop to another. All I have to do is hang on.

The place we pick is secure, on the top floor, two blocks from the Olympian Club where the others, I assume, are safe and sound. I bar the door and as I turn to face the room itself, I find Inris staring at the floor, mighty chest heaving. He then raises his head and issues forth a howl that is powerful and stirring, but at the same time mournful and heart wrenching. And then, as the howl fades away, the transformation begins.

It is brutal and cruel. There’s no other way I can describe it. 

The beast doesn’t go without a fight, making so much noise I’m afraid he will bring a horde of strigoi down upon us, but then again, these strigoi aren’t as ignorant as Inris likes to joke about. They know the danger he poses to them, how the wolf could rip through them and they could do nothing to him, but more importantly, the Master knows how dangerous the Lycan is to him. 

But the Master isn’t a fool. There are ways to harm a Lycan, rarer still are the ways to kill one, but they do exist, and he hasn’t existed as long as he has, nor as any of the Ancients, without that knowledge. That is the only thing that holds Inris back, and it is the same reason I deter him from storming the castle, as the saying goes. Selfish of me, yes, but I have lost so much, seen love and had it taken from me by my ‘father’. I cannot see it happen again.

But what I ask of him, he also asks of me. It isn’t truly fair, I know, that I won’t risk his death, but am so willing to sacrifice myself to kill the Master. I justify this by claiming it is my destiny, what I was born to do. It’s a hollow reasoning.

Once Inris is back to human form, I pick him up and take him to the bathroom, where I clean him up, and then take him and lay him on the bed. I cover him up and then sit beside him, my back against the headboard. A few moments later, he turns over and puts his head in my lap, still sound asleep. I run my hands through his hair, absorbing this moment, like I have so many others in our time together, and wish, hope, pray, that it would - _could_ \- go on forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading and for your patience. Also, thanks to everyone who sent well-wishes for my mom! Greatly appreciative for your good thoughts!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you guys thought I had forgotten, huh? Or lost interest? Well, I didn't!!! I've just been on another kick. I said I would finish this and I will.

I open my eyes and bright light assaults me. Not that there is any bright lights shining directly into my eyes, but it’s just the moments of adaption needed for my eyes to fall back into the human spectrum. I growl nonetheless, and throw an arm over my eyes, cursing the Master and all his minions.

The remnants of the wolf still linger over me. Under my skin, embedded in the marrow of my bones, clawing, scratching, tearing, and ripping, just beneath the surface. While Lycan’s are fully aware and in control of the wolf during our transformations, it’s a feral beast that wouldn’t hesitate to run wild if given the chance. My mother told me once long ago that the only true difference between our nature and those of our werewolf cousins was control. It would be easy to let the wolf run, all we would have to do is let it.

I growl again and sit up, opening my eyes wide. I’m in a strange room, naked, in a bed that smells like humans and sex, and more human and sex, and I fight the urge to growl yet again. Things are coming back to me, slowly, slithering out as if hiding in the darkness, and now finding it safe enough to venture out cautiously. The Ancients are dead, killed by their own brother, carried out by the hand his simpering little bitch Eichhorst in the form of a nuclear warhead. Tunnels collapsing. Slabs of concrete. Darkness.

I shake my head, trying to clear some of the cobwebs, but I’m not too groggy to sense Quinlan near me, coming closer. 

“I brought you some more clothes,” he told me as he came into the room and lay down a bundle of clothing and a pair of boots. 

I threw off the duvet and got out of the bed. Stretching I walk over to the window and blink into the sunlight that greets me. I curse it for being so bright as I thank it for warming my flesh and bones and blood. Typical.

“What the bloody fucking hell did that bastard do?” I snarl. My eyes drift to one side though I can’t see the damage from here.

“One of the nuclear warheads, I believe.” Quinlan comes over to me as far as he can. I shut the curtains quickly, giving him an apologetic look as I do. “He accomplished what the Master intended.”

“To destroy the Ancients.” He chuckle without mirth. “Finally get the worthless fuckers to get off their asses and do something and they get blown to hell. Karma really is a bitch.”

“I wonder if his reach extends to the old world. Has he targeted the other Ancients? Have they sided with him to save themselves?” Quinlan moved to stand nearer me, his eyes distant.

“If I was still in touch with the clans, I know my grandfather would know.” I thought back to the dream and once again wondered exactly what he had been trying to tell me. Maybe I could communicate with him through dreams again – if I only knew how to do it.

“It was rough, wasn’t it?” The change in subject is not even remotely subtle, but I’m not surprised about it, nor do I need any elaboration on what he is asking about.

“I’ve heard that it gets easier with age. I’ve also heard the opposite.” I shrug. “I don’t think it gets any easier at all. The wolf part of me is useful, but damn do I hate letting it loose. I know I will need to transform again, but I’ll never look forward to it.”

“Sun will be going down soon. We need to let the professor know what has happened.”

I agree with him. I dress quickly all the while trying to ignore the beast inside me. A warning. A call of blood. My grandfather’s words come back to me. _The Master and his plans for the human race._ I wish he hadn’t been so cryptic, so vague, in his warning. If you are going to caution someone, then at least make the effort so they understand the admonition. 

He had also told me I had the means to ‘knowing practically in the palms of my hands’. More equivocal shit. Thanks Grandfather!

We make a quick run from the hotel to the Olympian through the deserted streets. Guns shots and screaming can be heard from various parts of the city. The dust is settling though and I can’t help but think of Ancients and if their ashes can feel regret. Foolish, I know, but what can I say.

And, of course, when we arrived, the humans were bickering. Hell, Fet and Eph are fighting. Judging by the sounds we’re hearing it has come to blows. 

My money is on Fet. 

I shake my head and roll my eyes. Quinlan remains stoic.

“Stop this! You are giving the Master exactly what he wants!” We can hear the Professor clearly as we near the room they are all in, he, Fet, Eph, and Dutch. “He would love us to turn against each other. Especially now.”

“The Professor’s right. We’ve no time for your bickering,” Quinlan addresses them, calmly, as he walks into the room. I, like the good lil puppy I am, is right on his heels.

“What happened to you?” Fet asks, and with good reason. While I am clean and wearing fresh clothes after recovering from my transformation, Quinlan still bears the ash and dust from the explosion.

“Did you talk to the Ancients?” The Professor asks, hopeful. He seems older than what he was the last I saw him. 

“The Ancients are dead.” Straight and to the point. Another thing I adore about him. The look on the Professor’s face is one of shattered hope and shock. He and the others all share looks of dismay, silent questions as to what we do now clear on their faces.

His changes a great deal, but all is not lost. 

At least not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok. I'm ready. Let me have it.


End file.
